by Ner Tamid | Oct 12, 2025 | Sermons
The timing of the hostage release is a gift from G-d. Not only the fact that this war is wrapping up on its two-year anniversary, but the fact that we are already saying Hallel this week is nothing short of historic poetry. “Eim habanim s’meicha, the mother of the children is happy.” Can you imagine the ecstasy Silvia Cunio will experience when she embraces her boys, Ariel and David? Can you imagine the tears of joy that have been withheld for two years by Talya Berman, that will come pouring forth when she sees her twin boys, Gali and Ziv?
“Mei’eis Hashem haysa zos, hi nifla’as b’eineinu, this is from G-d, and it is wondrous in our eyes.” People are literally rubbing their eyes; is this for real? Are they really finally coming home?
And as a sign of these incredible times, the State of Israel gave a uniquely Biblical name for the operation to bring the hostages home. It is a verse from the book of Yirmiyahu, V’shavu banim ligvulam, the children will return to their borders. That’s what we’ve been waiting for, for the children of Israel, the innocent residents of Kibbutzim, the innocent young men and women dancing, the innocent and peace-loving defenders of Israel, to return to their borders and to their loved ones.
We are indeed living in Biblical times.
But if that is the case, it behooves us to read the rest of these Biblical passages.
Yirmiyahu, in that same chapter, describes the Jewish People uniting; how the tribes of Yehuda and Ephraim, two tribes who represented radically divergent worldviews, who split apart and fought often, will be like one, a united Am Yisrael. That prophecy has not yet been fulfilled.
Yirmiyahu, in that same chapter, describes the Jewish People not needing to teach one another Torah, because everyone will be so well-versed in the word of G-d. That prophecy has not yet been fulfilled.
Yirmiyahu, in that same chapter, describes a fully rebuilt Yerushalayim, a place in which the Beis Hamikdash, the Temple, will stand, a city dedicated entirely to G-d. That prophecy has not yet been fulfilled.
Yes, these are Biblical times, and that is worthy of celebrating. But it’s important that we do not lose sight of how far we are from our true destination.
A few years ago, our family drove to Orlando. Despite me telling them that there would be no bathroom breaks the entire drive, Hindy persuaded me to stop the car. We stopped at a rest-stop with a gas station, part of chain called Buc-ee’s Have you ever been there? It’s not a convenience store. It’s a mall. It’s a restaurant, it’s a Home Depot, it’s a Walmart, it’s a gift shop, and seven-11 all wrapped into one.
My kids were in heaven. They were going up and down the aisles, looking for food despite Hindy packing all of Seven Mile into our car, they were looking for gadgets they didn’t need, and for souvenirs from the glorious state of South Carolina. I couldn’t get them to leave. “Aba, do you see that snack selection? We need more time. This is epic!”
And what they could not understand is that if they did not get back in the car, we would never get to the Air BNB with the swimming pool and Kosher restaurants and Disney World. They were so enamored by Buc-ee’s that they didn’t realize that we were not yet at our real destination.
Ladies and gentlemen, we are not there yet.
A united people?! A time when Jews stop fighting with their fellow Jews?!
A learned people?! A time in which all Jews learn Torah and observe the Mitzvos?!
A moral world order?! A time in which the sanctity of life and common decency are part of the fabric of every society?!
A spiritual world order?! A time in which G-d and soul are not weird words that only Evangelical Christians use, but they are a fundamental part of our life?!
We need to get back in the car. We have ways to go.
And it’s not easy to get back in the car. It’s not easy because this current reality is so good; Baruch Hashem, this nightmare seems to be over! But if we are being honest with ourselves, it’s not easy because many of us do not really believe in a Messianic Era. Do you really believe in Mashiach?
I’m not even talking about the fantastical Midrashim about flying shuls, and trees that give forth whatever you wish for. The Rambam rejects a literal reading of those prophecies. What many of us do not believe in and should believe in is that this world can transform to such a degree; that we can have unity, that the world can acknowledge there being one G-d, that there could be world peace and a spiritually-centered civilization.
If I was given the opportunity to name this operation, I would choose a different verse from that same chapter in Yirmiyahu. Ki fada Hashem es Yaakov, u’g’alo miyad chazak mimenu. Those are words that are said daily as part of a blessing – Baruch ata Hashem go’al Yisrael. Blessed are you, Hashem, who redeemed Israel.
There is a law that we are not allowed to interrupt between the blessing of Go’al Yisrael, and the silent Amidah. Many explanations are given as to why that blessing, thanking G-d for redeeming us is juxtaposed with Shemoneh Esrei. Rashi suggests the following: We must remind ourselves first of all past redemptions; from Egypt, from the Greeks, from the Persians, from the Romans, from the Crusaders, from the Nazis, and from too many Arab states to count. We must remind ourselves how this little tiny nation has defied all odds and survived. Not just survived but thrived. That we have a state – a strong and spiritual state. And we say, thank you, Hashem, for redeeming us, for getting us this far! We reflect on our history, both past and present, we deepen our faith in G-d’s abilities, look how far we’ve come! Baruch ata, Hashem, go’al Yisrael! And then after all that reflection – then we pray. Because now that we’ve reflected on our history, we know, and we believe what G-d can do. We ask Him for health, for wealth, and we don’t stop there. We ask him to rebuild Jerusalem, to bring back the Davidic line, to return the shechinah to Tziyon.
We don’t pause between the blessing of Go’al Yisrael and Shemoneh Esrei because we need those reflections of our past to power our faith and allow us to ask G-d for more.
That’s a message I hope to reflect on this coming week; to see what’s unfolding before my eyes, to strengthen my belief in His abilities, and then ask G-d to keep it coming. And I invite you to do the same. Meaning,
When we see secular Jews and Chareidim hand in hand celebrating at Hostage Square, we will say, thank you G-d for bringing us close. Now bring us closer.
When we see so many nations agreeing to the parameters of this peace plan, we will say thank you G-d for giving us a taste of peace. Now give us a world of peace.
When we see politicians quoting the Torah, we will say, thank you G-d for bringing the Torah into our national consciousness. Now bring Torah into our kishkas.
When we see thousands of Jews gathering at the Kotel, we will say, thank you G-d for giving us the Har Habayit. Now give us the Bayit.
When we see mothers reuniting with their sons, we will say, thank you G-d for bringing them home. Now bring us ALL home.
Baruch ata Hashem, go’al Yisrael.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 8, 2025 | Sermons
A liminal state – a transitional phase of ambiguity, uncertainty, and transformation.
No better term to capture our current experience.
Time froze on October 7th, we never really moved on, and now, that excruciatingly long day is entering into Bein Hashmashos, the twilight zone, a state of liminality.
The root of liminal is limen, the Latin term for threshold. But a threshold is a clear bridge between inside and outside; you know exactly where you are coming from and where you are going. If we were to consider ourselves to be on a threshold, it would be a threshold made of running water, and the door before us opens into the complete unknown.
Which one of those precious captive souls we’ve praying and walking for are still alive?
Which bodies will never be recovered and will remain buried in the tunnels of Gaza forever?
Will Hamas really put down their arms? Are the people of Gaza really capable, after so much indoctrination, to sustain peace?
How long will it take the State of Israel to recover? Politically, financially, psychologically? Will the State of Israel recover?
What is the future of Jewry in Britain? In Europe? In America?
A liminal state – a transitional phase of ambiguity, uncertainty, and transformation.
“Zacharti lach chesed ne’u’rayich,” G-d praises the Jewish People for following Him into the desert, something I never thought of as a very big deal. G-d had just decimated the Egyptians through ten plagues; is following Him out of slavery all that impressive?
But it was my immaturity, my false bravado, that prevented me from seeing how terrifying it is to try something new. The comfort of what we know has an incredible hold on us; people will stay in abusive relationships for years because the unknown is far scarier.
Yes, it was a very big deal for the Jewish People to go, to take their families, some leaving their families, to leave behind everything they knew, to “follow Him in the desert.”
The Sukkah is the ultimate liminal space; sturdy but not too sturdy, a roof but you could still see the stars, it might be missing a wall or two, with gaps, but still considered a residence. Will our Sukkah stay standing this year or will the s’chach blow away? Will we get to eat all our meals outdoors or will it rain?
A liminal state – a transitional phase of ambiguity, uncertainty, and transformation.
But it’s not just the s’cach that can blow away in the wind; markets crash, loved ones get ill, relationships sour. Life is full of instability.
And that is precisely why we sit in the Sukkah.
The sukkah is described by the Zohar as the ‘shade of faith.’ By reminding us of the fragility of life, we are reminded how even in our greatest moments of instability, of liminality, G-d is watching over us.
There is a story told, known as The Last Seder in the Warsaw Ghetto, about a young boy and his father sitting together as the Warsaw ghetto is being burned to the ground by the Nazis. The boy, after finishing the Mah Nishtana, asks his father if he could ask him a fifth question. “Tatte, will I be alive next year to ask you the Four Questions?”
With tears in his eyes, the father reaches out to hold his son’s hand: “Moishe’le, I don’t know if you will be here next year to ask the Four Questions. What I do know that next year and every year after, a young boy just like you will ask his father the Four Questions.”
Our classical commentators debate the extent of Hashgacha Pratis, of personalized providence. Is G-d orchestrating every detail of your life or does He allow nature to run its course? Is the fender-bender you got in a message from G-d or a product of bad driving?
But all agree that the Jewish People as a whole are guarded by Divine Providence. In which country? With which government? In war or in peace? Who knows. What we do know is that G-d promises us that as a people we will prevail.
The individual Jews who followed G-d into the desert, they didn’t make it across the threshold. They all died in the desert. But the Jewish People as a whole made it through, from the darkest of places to the Holiest of lands.
To know that we are a part of this G-dly drama, to know that we are charged with doing everything we can to see it through, to know that G-d is watching over us, encouraging us, pushing us, so that we, the Jewish People and all of humankind, can make it across this threshold, I don’t know about you, but I find that to be extremely comforting and stabilizing.
Sergeant Major Elkana Vizel was one of the brave souls who gave his life to help us get to this point in history. Like all soldiers in Israel, he left a note for his family. His read as follows:
If you are reading these words, something must have happened to me. If I was kidnapped, I demand that no deal be made for the release of any terrorist to release me. Our overwhelming victory is more important than anything, so please continue to work with all your might so that the victory is as overwhelming as possible.
Maybe I fell in battle. When a soldier falls in battle, it is sad, but I ask you to be happy. Don’t be sad when you part with me. Touch hearts, hold each other’s hands, and strengthen each other. We have so much to be proud and happy about.
We are writing the most significant moments in the history of our nation and the entire world. So please, be happy, be optimistic, keep choosing life all the time. Spread love, light, and optimism. Look at your loved ones in the whites of their eyes and remind them that everything we go through in this life is worth it and we have something to live for.
His story is not over.
A few months ago, his widow, Galit, remarried. Right before the chuppah, she asked for the microphone and shared the following message: “Elkana, I am traveling on the path you paved for me. I am not swerving to the right or to the left… Every moment I am choosing life. I am choosing to be happy. I am choosing the vigor of life.
Elkana, please do me a favor. Continue to pray from Heaven for all the widows and for all of the nation of Israel.
Don’t forget what we agreed upon: Total victory is more important than anything else… against our external enemies… against our internal enemies – against sadness, against laziness, against giving up hope, against anger…
Since Simchat Torah, but in reality since the sin of Adam, we have been in a continuous war. We are in the same battle…
Elkana, you always fought your entire life… A war of good against bad.
And both of us know that good wins.
To the beloved Vizel family- Elkana is with you always. We are with you always. We are not leaving you. We are not giving up on you. We are family. It’s not easy for you. It’s not easy for us.
But Elkana asks of you: Be happy, ti’h’yu b’simcha!”
The Jewish People are no strangers to liminal states. Let’s sit in our flimsy Sukkahs and feel the warm embrace of G-d, let’s feel the strength of being part of this brave and holy nation, and let’s celebrate this holiday of overcoming liminality with simcha, with happiness.
Good Yom Tov. Chag Sameiach.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 3, 2025 | Sermons
His was the ultimate redemption story. The destitute shepherd who became the wealthy leader, the man who said of himself that he would venomously bite a Torah scholar if he saw one who became the greatest Torah scholar to have ever lived, the loner who is the central character in the Talmud’s greatest love story.
I am referring, of course, to Rabbi Akiva.
Rabbi Akiva lived during one of the most tumultuous times in Jewish history. Born in the year 50 of the Common Era, he saw the destruction of the Second Temple, was an influential figure in the failed Bar Kochba revolt and as we will read later this morning, he died a martyr at the hands of the Romans. Despite the chaos he was surrounded by, he managed to elevate Torah scholarship to such a degree that the Talmud (Menachos 29a) compares him to Moshe.
He is also responsible for the most well-known and widely practiced Jewish custom, the recital of Kaddish. The earliest source that connect Rabbi Akiva to the custom of a mourner saying Kaddish is found in the Machzor Vitri, an 11th century prayerbook, that shares the following story:
One day, Rabbi Akiva was walking through a cemetery when he encountered a terrifying-looking man. Unclothed, filthy, and most notably, wearing a crown of thorns. The man was running at full speed, chopping wood and loading the wood on his back. Rabbi Akiva caught up to him. Who are you? And who is your master? “I will free you!” declared Rabbi Akiva. Undoubtedly, reminded of his own humble beginnings, Rabbi Akiva always had a soft spot for the poor.
The man tried to brush Rabbi Akiva off. But Rabbi Akiva was persistent. “Who are you? I want to help you!”
אמר לו אותו האיש, ‘that man’ replied: “I am actually not alive. I died years ago. But every day, I am sent to chop wood. I have no rest, not in heaven and not in hell. I am damned to this eternal existence.”
Rabbi Akiva was not one to give up easily. “Why? What’s your story? What’s your name? I am going to see what I can do for you.”
The man informs Rabbi Akiva that his name is also Akiva. He was a tax collector who favored the rich and persecuted the poor. “I lived such an evil life that there is nothing that could be done for me.” And with that, he runs off into the darkness.
Rabbi Akiva travels through the region, stopping in every city, and asking them if they knew of this man. Finally, he arrives at one city, and oh did they know him. They share with Rabbi Akiva story after story of how evil this man was. “Not only that,” they say, “he fathered a child out of wedlock!”
Rabbi Akiva finds the child; he is living on the streets. Nobody wants to have anything to do with him. Rabbi clothes him, educates him, and after months of hard work and practice, the boy stands before the congregation and says Kaddish.
That night, the other Akiva appears to Rabbi Akiva in a dream, to thank him. He is clothed, he is clean, and his face is shining. This, concludes the Machzor Vitri, is why children say Kaddish for their parents.
There are two oddities of the text that are worth highlighting. I know, you’re tired and hungry, but let’s do a little Talmudic analysis.
“Oso ha’ish, that man,” is a way of saying, a man whose name we will not mention. He is “wearing a crown of thorns.”
Whose name do many Jews not mention? Who is depicted as wearing a crown of thorns?
Yes, the man in this story is a not-so-subtle allusion to Jesus. You have to appreciate, Machzor Vitri was written in France in the immediate aftermath of the Crusades. This was not a time of peaceful coexistence between Jews and Christians. And yet, the author, a prime student of Rashi, sends us a full-throated reminder, Yisrael af al pi shechata, Yisrael hu! That a Jew is a Jew is a Jew. No matter what we do, no matter how far we fall, there is always a chance for redemption. Even a man who started another religion, whose practitioners were massacring Jews as this book was being written, nonetheless, every Jew can turn his or her life around.
But the second oddity is even more shocking than the first. When this man finally gives his name, it is – Akiva. The man is chopping wood. Before becoming a shepherd, Avot D’Rav Nosson informs us that Rabbi Akiva’s profession was that of a woodchopper.
You see, Rabbi Akiva was not looking at a ghost. Rabbi Akiva was looking in the mirror. He was looking at an alternative to his own life. He saw this ‘Other Akiva,’ he saw the life of spiritual ignorance, of ethical failures, and he said, “That could have been me.”
***
Long before he was governor, Wes Moore wrote a book called, The Other Wes Moore.
Love him or hate him, our governor, Wes Moore, has a very inspiring life story. A troubled youth but thanks to the influence of a number of incredible role models, he turned his life around.
By the time he was 21, in the year 2000, he was a Rhodes Scholar traveling in South Africa. One day his mother shared with him a newspaper clipping from the Baltimore Sun. There was a young man, the same age, who grew up just a few blocks away, and was being charged with manslaughter for killing a police office after a botched burglary in downtown Baltimore. The other man’s name was Wes Moore.
Governor Moore remembers thinking to himself: “The other Wes Moore is a drug dealer, a robber, a murderer. I am a Rhodes scholar, a White House Fellow, a former Army officer.”
And yet, “Our situations could easily have been reversed.”
All of us have numerous paths before us. Rabbi Akiva, Wes Moore, all of us have an Other. Had I not gone to that school, had I not met this person, had I not made that choice, my life would be radically different than it is. Do you ever wonder about the infinite possible paths your life could have taken?
The mistake we make is that we think that our path-choosing is done. That by the time Wes Moore wrote that book, at the age of 30, his life trajectory was already set in motion. Rabbi Akiva, the ever-growing, the ever-evolving, the ever-optimistic Rabbi Akiva rejects this. He was at least 80 years old when that story took place. He saw the Other Akiva and he said, “This could be me. I don’t want this life. I could do better!” And he did.
It was at around this time that he grappled with the fall-out of the failed Bar Kochba revolt, it was at around this time that thousands of his students died, his life work seemed finished. But Rabbi Akiva was undeterred. At every juncture, he saw two paths before him, and each time, Rabbi Akiva reinvented himself. “I don’t want this life. I could do better!” And he did. (See Yevamos 62b)
This, suggests Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch, is the meaning behind the Yom Kippur service in the temple. There were two identical goats that were part of the service. One was brought as an offering; its blood sprinkled in the Holy of Holies. The other was thrown off a cliff, la’azazel. Says Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch, every year on Yom Kippur we are reminded of the two, and really, not just two, but the endless paths before us. Which path will we choose?
***
One of the greatest techniques for helping us see the different paths open before us is by thinking about our parents. We have their genes, and thanks to nature and nurture, we can see ourselves in them. Some of us had magnificent loving parents, some had horrific abusive parents, and many had parents somewhere in between. All of us have traits that are a direct result of our mother and father.
The goal of life is not to simply perpetuate our parents’ legacy; it is to take it further, higher, grander. The term for child in Hebrew is ben from the word binyan; we are meant to build on their successes and failures. They remind us of who we could be, and that knowledge is meant to motivate us to be better. Because there are so many possible versions of ourself that are just waiting to be realized.
It is not a coincidence that when Rabbi Akiva came face to face with the Other Akiva, he instituted Kaddish. Kaddish, the prayer we say for our parents, the prayer that focuses not on the past but on a radical version of peace in the future, is meant to remind us of our possible future, the other you waiting to be realized.
***
Menachem Begin, former Prime Minister of Israel, once shared the following story: “I’ve been to jail three times,” he said. “The first time the communists arrested me in Vilna. The Soviets locked me up in one of their prisons. I was held there for six weeks and all I could think about was getting back home. The second prison was a forced labor camp in Siberia. By my sixth week in Siberia, I dreamt of being back in that first prison cell. The third time, the Soviets put me in solitary confinement, and I dreamt of being back in that Siberian labor camp.”
“The Jewish People as a nation have been through so many years of suffering, humiliation, and abuse. When they think of peace, they’re content when people aren’t shooting at them. When they think of freedom, they’re content by not being slaves. My job,” he concluded, “as prime minister of Israel is to make sure that Jewish children never dream of labor camps or of prisons, but that they dream the dreams of a free people.”
How many of us are simply content with survival, with living another year? How many of us are okay with keeping the status quo of our current relationships, with loved ones, with G-d?
Like the Jewish People as a whole, we’ve been conditioned through so many failures, that we’re content with so little.
And what a pity that is.
Because there is another version of you waiting to be realized. The ‘other you’ who overcomes the anger, the laziness, the jealousy, the judgmentalism, once and for all. Who says, just because I lived with these negative traits for decades, doesn’t mean I cannot overcome them.
There is another version of you who reconciles with his or her brother, sister, spouse, child, old friend. There is another version of you who is not content with an okay relationship with a loved one; but wants to live with passion and forgiveness and safety and works tirelessly until you get there.
There is another version of you who deepens their knowledge of their tradition. A version of you not content with an elementary understanding of this faith that our ancestors lived and died for. But who wants to speak to G-d as an intimate lover and to feel His presence through the good times and in the valley of death.
Let’s take advantage of these next few moments when many of us think about our parents and ask ourselves how we can take their legacy further. Let’s take advantage of these next few hours, as we read of the two goats, as we recall the story of Rabbi Akiva, and ask ourselves who we can be.
There is another version of you just waiting to be realized.
(h/t to Rabbi Jon Gross esq. for the brilliant Wes Moore-Rav Hirsch connection and to Rabbi Joe Wolfson for the majestic read of the Machzor Vitri)
by Ner Tamid | Oct 3, 2025 | Sermons
Alfred Dehodencq was one of the most accomplished artists of the 19th century. Born in France, he chose to live in Morrocco for over a decade, where his most famous paintings were produced. Many of his painting depict typical Jewish scenes, but one stands out, known as, The Execution of a Jewess in Morocco.
Made in 1861, it is a powerful picture with a Jewish girl at the center being forced to kneel on a large platform. There is a large Arab standing over her with a knife to her neck. In the crowd there are two groups; one jeering and excited to see this execution. The other group somber and scared. In the foreground, there is a rabbi, depicting the leader of the community, deep in prayer, hunched over and broken.
The Jewess in the painting is Solica Hachuel.
I shared her story with some of you on Tisha B’av, but her story and specifically this painting has been haunting me ever since. There are differing versions as to what exactly took place; what I will be sharing with you is from Eugenio Maria Romero, a Spaniard who visited Morrocco shortly after this affair.
Solica was a 17-year-old Jewish girl who lived in Tangier, Morrocco. She was exceptionally beautiful and strong-willed; two factors that would play an important role in her life. She was friends with a Muslim neighbor, which was common at the time. At one point, her Muslim neighbor tried to get Solica to convert to Islam. Solica was not interested. However, it seems like her neighbor was as strong-willed as Solica and kept encouraging her to accept Muhammad as the true prophet. Solica repeatedly declined.
Exasperated, the neighbor turned to the local authorities and claimed that Solica had secretly converted to Islam. Her intention was possibly to get the authorities to force Solica to start practicing as a Muslim. However, the punishment for practicing Judaism after converting to Islam was death. Solica was brought before the local governor who accepted the Muslim girl’s testimony and then turned to Solica informing her that unless she accepted to live her life as a Muslim she would die.
After being threatened by death, Solica, the 17-year-old girl, replied to the governor: “I will patiently bear the weight of your chains; I will give my limbs to be torn by wild beasts. I will renounce forever the light of the day; I will perish of hunger. And when all the evils of life are accumulated on me by your orders, I will smile at your indignation, and the anger of your prophet since neither he nor you are able to overcome a weak female!”
The Jewish community mobilized and attempted to use whatever connections they had to free Solica. The most high-ranking individual they could reach was the Spanish Vice-Consul, who made a feeble attempt, but was unsuccessful.
Eventually, thanks to the public outcry, the case made its way to the Sultan. Allegedly, the sultan’s son was so taken by Solica’s beauty that he offered to marry her and make her a princess, if only she would convert. She refused. “A Jewess I was born, and a Jewess I will die,” is what she said.
One of the many people who came to visit her while she was waiting for her execution was one of the community’s leading rabbis. He explained to her that technically she could just pretend to accept Muhammad. He pleaded with her to do so, explaining how it would be extremely helpful for the Jewish community’s safety if she converts.
She refused.
On June 5th, 1834, Solica was dragged to the marketplace, where she was executed publicly with the words of Shema Yisrael proudly on her lips. If you visit Fez, you can join the many people who visit her grave.
Solica’s execution is most obviously a tragic tale. But the real tragedy is not her execution. The real tragedy is the community’s impotence; their inability to do anything about those false charges. The most heartbreaking tragedy of all is the rabbi, the rabbi depicted in that famous painting, who pathetically begged this heroine to renounce her faith.
I’m being a little harsh, I know. Who could blame him? The Jews, in the 19th century were powerless and completely dependent on the goodwill of their rulers. Of course, the rabbi had to meekly beg her to hide her true faith. Who can blame the community for not doing more? The Jews, in the 19th century, did not have political power.
But imagine for a moment that this story happened today. Do you know what kind of political pressure there would be on Morocco? How many presidents and prime ministers would weigh in and force the Moroccan government to let her go?
And if Morocco would refuse to listen, can you imagine the field day Mossad agents would have? Do you how many Moroccan beepers would blow up? How many nuclear scientists would mysteriously die?
And if they still refused, I could see Netanyahu sending fighter jets to blow up the prison and rescue her. I could even imagine Yair Lapid congratulating him for doing so.
And that pathetic, meek, rabbi, pleading with Solica to denounce her own faith, can you even imagine such a thing happening today?! Not. A. Chance.
There is a lot of handwringing in our community these days. Yes, antisemitic incidents are on the rise, yes, Israel is more isolated than she’s been in decades, yes, what is going on in Gaza is an absolute nightmare. But in over 2000 years, it has never been this good to be a Jew.
Since the creation of the State of Israel, have the enemies of the Jewish state been more afraid than they are today? Scared to use their phones, scared to meet in groups, scared to breathe.
There is a lot that is imperfect and terrible. We will not rest until the hostages come home, until the soldiers go back to their families, and until there is peace in Israel, but don’t tell me this has not been one of the most momentous years in recent Jewish history. Annihilation of Hezbollah in Hollywood fashion, near-decimation of Hamas, attacking the nuclear facilities of Iran and bringing the country to its knees?
If there is one thing history books will be saying about this year, it is that in 5785, the world learned that Jewish blood is not cheap.
Too bad Solica did not live in 2025, because if she did, she would still be alive. She would be walking the streets of Jerusalem with her head held high.
There are two ways to enter into Yom Kippur. We could be burdened by our inadequacies and how far we are from where we need to be, as individuals and as a people. We could look like that hunched over rabbi in that picture, weighed down by guilt and by shame. Or we could walk into Yom Kippur filled with gratitude; reflecting on a year in which G-d conveyed to us how after 2000 years of exile, He is watching over us and He cares.
Atoning for our sins is critical, but atonement is the trees of Yom Kippur. The forest – is how G-d is giving us an opportunity to reignite our relationship with Him. You know why He does this for us? You know why He gives us an opportunity to apologize to Him, to reconcile, to reconnect? Because Jewish blood is not cheap. Because we are precious to Him. And He wants us to know that.
We just said the blessing of She’hechiyanu, thanking G-d for bringing us to this day. On the Yom Kippur of 1834, in Tangier, Morrocco, Solica’s parents said this blessing with a stream of tears falling from their eyes. Despite all they went through, despite the pain and shame, they clung to their faith with bowed heads.
If Solica Hachuel lived today, she’d be screaming Shehechiyanu from the rooftops. And so should we.
Thank you, Hashem, for this past year, with all its hardships and all the unfinished business.
Thank you, Hashem, for eliminating so many of our neighboring enemies; Hezbollah, the Syrians, and most of Hamas.
Thank you, Hashem, for releasing our fear of the Iranians; we had been so scared of them for so long, and you have showed us their weakness.
Thank you, Hashem, for allowing the IDF and its security forces to be so successful, and showing the world that Jewish blood is not cheap
Thank you, Hashem, for reminding us that we matter, for allowing us to live in these glorious times. We are looking forward to spending these next 24 hours expressing our gratitude and rekindling our relationship. She’hechiyanu v’kiy’manu v’higiyanu lazman hazeh.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 1, 2025 | Sermons
A rabbi and his disciple were once walking together deep in discussion. They arrived at the bank of a river and saw a young woman in tears. “Why are you crying?” asked the rabbi. She told him that she was deathly afraid of water, but she really needed to get to the other side of the river. “No problem,” said the rabbi. He suggested that she climb on his back, which she did. And he carried her across the river.
The student followed behind, the entire time, shaking his head. The woman thanked the rabbi profusely, went on her way, and the rabbi and his student continued walking. The student kept shaking his head and muttering under his breath.
After about two miles, the rabbi turned to his student and said, “What’s bothering you?”
Incredulous, the student responded: “Rabbi, we’re not allowed to touch a woman other than our wife! You let this woman on your back. You held onto her!”
“Yes,” said the rabbi. “I did.”
“But I let go of her two miles ago at the crossing. Why are you still carrying her?”
We’re starting the holiest day of the year. Many of us are dressed in white, as we emulate the angels and attempt to fly to the heights of spirituality. But our wings are just not strong enough to bear all that we carry. All of us here have memories, all of us here have strong emotions that we can’t seem to shake. And now, at this sacred moment, it would be a good idea to think about what we are carrying and what’s holding us down.
I’d venture to say that we are weighed down with pain from family. We are so often hurt by those closest to us, the people we’ve depended on, the people who know our most shameful vulnerabilities. We carry the burden of that pain.
I’d venture to say that we are weighed down with indignity. We feel ignored by our spouse, we feel like our opinion does not matter in our own home, we feel, in the place and with the person who is supposed to make us feel most important, we feel most small. We carry the burden of indignity.
We are weighed down by feelings of being ignored. We went through a hard time, and our friends were nowhere to be seen. We called them and texted and emailed, but they never responded. We carry the burden of being invisible.
We are weighed down by ingratitude. We worked tirelessly to support our co-workers, or our bosses and they walk away with all the praise, they get the raises and attention, and they don’t even bother to say thanks. There are children who owe us gratitude; they just take and take and take. They don’t realize how hard we work, what we’ve sacrificed. We love them but it hurts. We carry the burden of being taken for granted.
We are weighed down by a longing for love. All the bids for attention from our parents that went ignored. All the times we were hoping they’d swoop in with a hug or a kiss or a kind word, and instead they left us cold. We carry the burden of feeling unloved.
I used to think that our shoulders sag as we get older because of a loss of muscle. But I don’t believe that anymore. It’s all the pain we’re trying to carry. Each year, each decade, it grows. It’s a lot to carry.
Sometimes, someone comes by and apologizes from the bottom of their heart. They express remorse over what they’ve done, the pain they caused, and they remove some of the burden. But too often we’re left carrying a terribly heavy load.
It’s not only the elderly that are weighed down. Allow me to share with you a story of a young couple who were debilitated by the pain caused by a stranger:
Dovid and Tamar Sheinberg are two Israelis in their lower 20’s. They got engaged in early 2020 and were planning on getting married in the spring. However, at the end of February 2020, the Israeli government started making plans for a lockdown and Dovid and Tamar were concerned that they would not be able to get married. No problem. They were resourceful. They decided to make a wedding in March. The government had already instituted limits on crowd sizes. Dovid and Tamar were very conscientious to do everything legally. They invited their immediate family and their rabbi, rented a small hall, and had a wedding.
Despite the small crowd, despite not having their friends and cousins at their wedding, they went all out. They made sure that the wedding was picture perfect. After all, this was not of their dreams. The servings were elegant, the décor was beautiful, the music was stirring. Everything was going as planned, the young couple were on top of the moon – until the police barged in.
The police were quickly followed by soldiers who started barking orders. “Disperse! Everyone must leave immediately!”
Dovid ran over to the mefaked, the captain, and explained, “Officer, everything is being done legally. We have the right amount of people here. Please! This is our wedding!!”
Not only was he ignored, they started writing tickets to the guests, who all immediately ran off.
And so there they were, Dovid and Tamar and their parents getting fined 5000 shekels each for being in violation of a crime they did not commit, surrounded not by friends, not even by family, but by soldiers with guns, on their wedding night.
When the police left, Dovid, a popular young man, stood outside, pleading with strangers to please join him for five minutes so they could say Sheva Berachos with a minyan.
The couple was crushed. The night of their dreams, which they had planned so meticulously, turned into a nightmare. When the pictures arrived from the photographer, they threw them into a drawer, they were too traumatized to relive that night of horror. They made sure to never drive past their wedding hall. They never spoke of their wedding. It was just too painful. This young couple, who had such beautiful dreams of wonderful marriage kick-started with a magnificent wedding, was now living under a cloud. Weighed down by hurt. Trudging along with pain.
Seven months later, on a Friday afternoon, right before Shabbos, Dovid received a call from his father. His father had a received a message from a young man he did not know. The young man admitted to being the one who called the police. He wanted to speak to Dovid and Tamar. He wanted to apologize. Would Dovid and Tamar take a call from this young man?
It was Friday, a few minutes before Shabbos, Dovid told his father that he and Tamar would discuss it. And they did. It was the worst Shabbos of their life. They relived every moment of that horrible nightmare. They went back and forth. Jewish Law does not demand that we forgive. We are not obligated to forgive if we cannot. The pain, the hurt, the impact was undoable. They considered saying no. But towards the end of Shabbos as they sang the Zemiros of Shalosh Seudos, “Yedid Nefesh Av Harachaman, The soul’s beloved – G-d – the compassionate Father,” they resolved they would indeed speak to this man.
Right after Shabbos, they let their father know and a few minutes later the man called. He couldn’t speak. He choked on his tears, but eventually he got out an apology. He explained to them that on the night of the wedding, he heard music, he realized there was a wedding taking place, he assumed these people were breaking the law and was petrified of Covid, so he called the police. He realized now that he made a terrible terrible mistake. He realized how much pain he had caused them. He begged them to forgive him.
By the time he was done, they were all crying. Dovid and Tamar looked at each other, shook their heads and told him: “We were hurt, we are still hurt, but we realize you made a mistake, and we forgive you. With a complete heart, we forgive you.”
The next day was Yom Kippur. Dovid and Tamar went into the holy day feeling lighter than they’d ever felt before. If they can find it in their hearts to forgive, then maybe just maybe G-d can forgive them for all the mistakes they have made in their lives. The burden they were carrying for all those months was no longer. Yes, their wedding was ruined. Yes, the first months of their marriage was shrouded in darkness. But they forgave. They removed the burden of pain from their backs, and they felt it.
Two days later, Dovid received a frantic call from his sister-in-law. Tamar, his wife, was in a terrible accident. She had been the front car in a four car pile-up and was rushed to the hospital. Dovid immediately made his way to the hospital, to his wife’s room, burst in, only to see his wife sitting up in the hospital bed. She was fine. Shaken but okay.
The doctor walked into the room and said, “You must have angels looking out for you. Based on the impact from the other cars, your airbag should have been deployed, but for some unknown reason it malfunctioned. Had it deployed, the baby in your stomach” – Tamar was six months pregnant – “the baby in your stomach would not have made it.” (as told to Yoel Gold)
Now I don’t like miracle stories; do good and good will happen to you. It’s not how we believe the world works. So, I cannot guarantee that if you forgive someone then angels will protect you. What I can guarantee is that if you forgive someone, if you truly remove the pain that you’ve been carrying, you will feel more like an angel. You will feel as light and as free as a malach.
It would be nice if all those who pained us, if all those who burdened us, if all those who weighed us down, would call us, begging us to forgive. But we do not only forgive for others; we also forgive for ourselves.
Or sages teach us that if we want G-d to forgive us, then we should forgive others. How does that work? Is it magic? We’re nice so G-d is nice to us? It sounds juvenile.
But it’s not. When we forgive someone else, we are not only absolving them of their guilt, of their crime. We are also lightening the burden on our back. We are also allowing our shoulders to straighten. We are also enabling our wings to fly.
We just said Kol Nidrei. We released all the vows that we made over the course of the year. Did you make any vows this year? I didn’t make any vows this year. I am not holding to any vows that I needed to absolve. I don’t think any of us are. But are you holding on to shame?
Are you holding on to indignity?
Are you feeling burdened by being ignored? By not being thanked? By not being loved? By being hurt?
Let me introduce you to a different prayer that many people say as Yom Kippur begins. It’s called Tefilas Zakah. In this prayer, there is one paragraph in which we forgive all those who wronged us. This is a prayer that is relevant to us all.
I invite you to join me in saying this passage together. You are not obligated to forgive. But if you can, if you are able, forgiving, even though we have not been asked to forgive will help us let go, will help relieve the burden on our backs, and the weight on our wings.
Please open your machzor to page 41 and recite the paragraph along with me:
But since I know that there is hardly a righteous person in the world who never sins between man and his neighbor, either monetarily or physically, in deed or in speech, therefore my heart aches within me, because for a sin between man and his neighbor, Yom Kippur does not atone util one appeases his neighbor. For this I am inwardly broken and my bones shudder, because even the day of death does not atone. Therefore, I cast my supplication before You that You have mercy on me and allow me to find favor, kindness, and mercy in Your eyes and in the eyes of all people. Behold! I extend complete forgiveness to everyone who has sinned against me, whether physically or monetarily, or who has gossiped about me or even slandered me. So, too, to anyone who has injured me, whether physically or financially, and for any human sins between man and his neighbor – except for money that I wish to claim and that I can recover by law, and except for someone who sins against me and says, ‘I will sin against him and he will forgive me’ – except for these I grant complete forgiveness; and may no person be punished on my account. And just as I forgive everyone, so may You grant me favor in every person’s eyes, so that he or she will grant me complete forgiveness.
by Ner Tamid | Sep 28, 2025 | Sermons
L’vado, alone, is a term that has both positive and negative connotations.
Lo tov heyos ha’adam l’vado, it is not good for man to be alone. And yet, vayivaser Yaakov l’vado, Yaakov’s aloneness leads to his most spiritual encounter. Is it good to be alone or not?
We are described by Bilaam as a nation alone, am l’vadad yishkon, in what was an attempted curse. But ultimately his curse gets expressed as a blessing. The distinctiveness of the Jewish People, is that a blessing or a curse?
The only l’vad that is clearly positive is a description of G-d being alone, ein od milvado. And yet, it is precisely that aloneness, that distance from us, that makes our relationship with Him so difficult. We want to see Him, we want to understand Him, and yet, He seems so far away, so difficult to comprehend His ways.
My goal this evening is to address three different aloneness’s that we experience; a nation alone, personal loneliness, and loneliness as it relates to our distance from G-d. I hope to provide some perspective on these topics and also a practical exercise for each one. They are not difficult exercises; they are small tweaks to our life. If you are looking for some mind-blowing new behavior this is not the place you will find it. The mesorah I have from my rebbeim is that the only way to bring about effective change, is to make the smallest of behavioral modifications. This past year, I decided last Rosh Hashana to make a change; it was so small and seemingly insignificant but also transformative. And no, I won’t be sharing it with you.
For those of you with a short attention span, my entire talk today can be summed up in one sentence: The key factor as to whether being alone is a blessing or a curse revolves around the difference between being alone and being lonely.
Rav Soloveitchik, in his classic book, The Lonely Man of Faith suggests that to be alone means to be divorced from other humans and that is tragic and that is painful; we are social beings, we need to be connected to others. To be lonely means to recognize that we are utterly unique. To be lonely means to accept that there is a part of us that may never be fully understood by anyone and to appreciate how precious that is. While aloneness saps us of our energy, loneliness, getting in touch with our uniqueness, is actually invigorating.
Aloneness and loneliness.
Let’s talk about how this plays out as a nation.
Allow me to read you a letter that someone in our shul, Dr. Gary Bauman, received a few weeks ago:
“Dear Dr. Bauman,
This isn’t an easy email to write, but my wife … and I won’t be coming to your practice in the future. We’re sorry about this because we appreciate the excellent care we have received from you over many years. But we feel intruded upon by your sign “We stand with Israel,” because, to put it simply, the two of us don’t.
However understandable Israel’s initial response to Hamas’s horrible actions of October 7, 2023 may have been, the continued slaughter of tens of thousands of Gazan civilians, with no end in sight, seems to us indefensible, a violation of the norms of civilized conflict. Obviously, we and you have different views of this—and of course you have every right to your own beliefs– but your sign, in particular, leaves us no choice but to withdraw from your practice.
Sincere regards.”
Shockingly, or maybe not so shockingly anymore, the writers of this email are Jewish. They, like so many other Jews, feel embarrassed of the Jewish State.
I feel angry at them, I feel disappointed with them, and I also feel empathy towards them – I understand, or I think I understand where they are coming from. It is a scary time to be a Jew; it is a scary time to be a supporter of Israel. Since the creation of the State of Israel, I don’t believe there has been a time when Israel has been so marginalized – look at the circus playing out at the UN right now. I don’t believe there has been a time in which Israel’s politicians and even former IDF soldiers are afraid to travel abroad because they might get arrested, a time in which so many countries that have been long-standing allies of Israel are turning their backs on her, a time in which not only the usual suspects like the New York Times but even the Wall Street Journal is hyper-critical of Israel, a time in which college students may be safe today, but that is only because of sanctions that can be repealed at any time, and not because of a change of hearts. I have been traveling back and forth to New York almost weekly for the past few years, and maybe it’s in my head, but I feel like the stares at my kippah and tzitzis are getting worse. It has never been so lonely being a Jew. It has never been so lonely being a supporter of the Jewish State.
I imagine these people who wrote that email, are at least subconsciously afraid of being alone. There is a deep-rooted need to feel connected to others. We are hardwired as humans to thrive when we feel connected and to shrivel when we are isolated.
Now there is another group of Jews on the opposite extreme; these Jews are hyper-focused on the Jewish People’s survival and so they isolate themselves as best as possible. Often times, this isolation from others bleeds into denigration of others, such as mocking non-Jews. Even more extreme, there is a small, and I repeat, very small group of Jews, we’ll call them hyper-nationalists, who are so focused on the Jewish People that they believe that non-Jewish blood, and specifically, Arab blood is worthless.
As distant as these two groups are from one another, they have something in common. Both the self-loathing Jew and the hyper-nationalist Jew believe that to be a Jew means to be alone – separate from the nations of the world. The self-loathing Jew attempts to escape Jewish fate, which as we know, never works. If the Nazis were to come tomorrow, those email writers, Hannah Einbeinder, and everyone else like them would be in the same line as me and you. The Meshech Chochmah famously suggests that the reason calamities befall the Jewish People is to make them realize that they cannot escape Jewish fate. But some people never seem to learn this lesson.
On the other hand, the misguided hyper-nationalist Jew dreams of a world without non-Jews, and that too is wrong. Ironically, these people, many of whom live in Israel, are living with a galus mentality. Their mindset is born out of 2000 years of exile, of trying to survive while the nations of the world were trying to devour us, physically and spiritually.
We are past that stage. The Jewish dream which we are clearly so close to seeing fulfilled is one in which all nations of the world have a place. Ki beisi beis tefillah yikoreh l’chol ha’amim. “My house,” says G-d, “will be called a house of prayer for all the nations.”
Rav Kook, in one of his most famous pieces, describes different levels of greatness. There is the nationalist, the individual who is not only focused on themselves, but they are focused on the Jewish People, and that is great and that is beautiful. But at an even higher level is the following individual:
“There is a person whose soul is so broad that it expands beyond the border of [Am] Yisrael. It sings the song of humanity. This soul constantly grows broader with the exalted totality of humanity and its glorious image. This person yearns for humanity’s general enlightenment. and looks forward to its perfection.”
We are not meant to be alone – separate from the nations of the world. We are meant to be lonely – unique among the nations of the world.
After October 7th, some Jews tried as best as they could to escape the aloneness by blending in. Other Jews saw the massacre as a call to arms – the world is against us. Then there were others who said they will not be alone, but they will be lonely; they decided to embrace their Judaism, even though in doing so it made them different.
My favorite example of this phenomenon is the famous actor, Michael Rappaport. Rappaport is not your typical role model. He cannot finish a sentence without dropping at least two to three words that have to be censored. He is not an observant individual. But after October 7th, he went on the Jewish offensive. Not only did he defend the State of Israel, he started wearing a Talis and Tefilin every day. Despite his newfound love for Israel and Judaism causing him to get less roles in films, he has not stopped, he’s only doubled down. In his own words, and these are some of the few quotes that you will ever hear from him that do not involve four-letter words, he said as follows:
“My Judaism has changed 100%. I am more in tune with it. I’m more proud, I’m more aware, I’m more educated. I’m more proactive in every single way possible and I’m really glad about that. I believe in G-d in a different way. I believe in Hashem in a different way. I celebrate and understand him in a different way.”
“I think we have nothing but faith. You have to have faith. That’s been one of the good things that has come from this last year for me personally.”
Again, Michael Rapaport is far from a shining role model, but at least in this respect, he understood, when we are singled out by our enemies, we don’t run, we don’t hide, we don’t hate. We embrace our difference; we accept that to be a Jew is to be lonely.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, building upon a theme the Ramchal writes of in Derech Hashem, explains that G-d separated us as a nation, gave us unique laws for many reasons, but one of them is to teach the world, what he famously described as, “the dignity of difference.”
When we think of Judaism as being a light onto the nations, the greatest gift we can give the world is the reminder that we are not all the same. In his eloquent words: “The test of faith is whether I can make space for difference. Can I recognize G-d’s image in someone who is not in my image, whose language, faith, ideals, are different from mine? If I cannot, then I have made G-d in my image instead of allowing him to remake me in his.”
This is why, Rabbi Sacks argues, G-d made us different from other nations, to remind them of the dignity of difference, and in doing so the dignity of every human being.
Aloneness is a curse; it is likely what Bilaam had in mind when he described the Jewish People as a “nation apart.” We are not meant to be alone. We are meant to be different, we are meant to be lonely, we are meant to be proud of who we are, G-d’s blessed people, and we are meant to be driven by a mission to share that blessing with the nations around us, who as Rav Kook taught us, we must strive to care about.
So what does this look like practically? In what practical way can we balance our Jewish pride, our need to be distinct, without losing sight of the nations around us, without losing sight of the ultimate goal of all nations coming together in harmony?
Here’s my solution. It’s small. It’s simple. But I think it captures it. Three words. “G-d bless you.”
That’s right. All of us interact with non-Jews all the time. At work, at the store, our friends. When we say goodbye, when we say thank you, can we take stock of who we are? We are G-d’s People. Can we be proud of who we are? We are G-d’s blessed nation. And can we remember to share that blessing with the nations of the world?
G-d bless you.
Every time we say that phrase to a non-Jew, as a sign-off, as a salute, as a thank-you, we are affirming our Jewish pride, our Messianic destiny, and our love for the nations of the world. “G-d bless you” – exercise #1 in embracing our loneliness.
***
But now let’s zoom in, a little closer to home, to a form of aloneness that plagues us as individuals. I am not referring to what is known as the loneliness epidemic that has been written about, talked about, and has recently been highlighted by the surgeon general as an epidemic. What I’d like to discuss is how we are completely disconnected, not only from others, but from ourselves.
Our Neshama, our soul, the part of us that is really who we are, is isolated. It may be inside us, but we almost never tap into her. We are so frenetically busy, we ignore her entirely. We can be in the most spirituality-inducing setting possible, and we just ignore what’s bubbling up inside.
They say a story about a man at a funeral who turns to the officiating rabbi right before the service begins and asks him for the WiFi password. The rabbi’s incredulous. “Have some respect!”
“Thanks rabbi. Is that all lowercase?”
It’s a funny joke, but it’s a sad commentary on society.
We don’t give our soul, and by soul, I mean, our deepest feelings, our yearnings, an opportunity to breathe.
We bombard ourselves with endless memes, clips, and news flashes, and we’re left clueless as to who we really are. Sometimes the content is Torah content, and it’s still a distraction.
We are so busy consuming content that we forget that we are content creators; there is a fabulously rich creative reality living under the surface.
Instead, we ignore her because we’re too busy and too overwhelmed to pay attention.
Rabbeinu Bachya, in Chovos Halevavos, written in the 11th century, speaks of Pizur Hanefesh, the fracturing of the soul, when we feel like we are all over the place. It’s not a new phenomenon, but in 2025, it’s especially insidious.
Rav Itamar Schwartz, author of Bilvavi Mishkan Evneh, suggests that the fracturing of the soul comes from a good place. Our souls are thirsty – they want so much, but they can’t make up their mind. And so, we jump from thing to thing, from idea to idea, even from inspiration to inspiration. Rav Kook argues that as time marches on, there is not yeridat hadorot, a diminishment of spirituality. On the contrary, there is what he calls, aliyat hadorot, there is spiritual progression; the souls of every subsequent generation are more elevated than the generation before. And so aside from the technological advances that distract us so brilliantly, perhaps our souls are also hungrier than ever; we jump from one thing to the next because we want more.
One way or another, the pizur hanefesh, the sense of disconnect and being all over the place, is, in 2025, undoubtedly more pronounced than ever.
How do we deal with this terrible alienation of ourselves from ourselves?
How do we find ourselves in a world which bombards us with exciting and even inspiring messages at every turn?
Where do we develop the capacity to listen to a soul? How do we overcome pizur hanefesh and tap into who we really are and what we really need?
One person who grappled with this mightily was Rav Kook. He was the Chief Rabbi of what was not yet Israel. He writes: “I force myself to learn, act, socialize, to carry out various obligations until not a single thought ever gets the opportunity to become complete and mature.” It was a desperately poor country, he was in the middle of a firestorm of politics, and he had no time to breathe. Or perhaps more accurately, he had no time to think. And his soul languished and it killed him.
But he did not give up. He did not simply say, this is the new world, this is my reality. Instead, he shares us how he overcame this challenge: “The greater a person the more they must seek to discover themselves… We need to be alone frequently, to elevate our imagination, to deepen our thought, to liberate our mind. [Only then,] will our soul reveal itself to us by radiating some of its light upon us. Then we will find our happiness.”
What he is describing is not Hisbo’dedus, something Rav Nachman encourages, quiet time to speak to G-d. He is not describing meditation which is an exercise to silence the mind. What Rav Kook is describing is simply time for oneself. No podcast. No music. No devices. Silence.
What would it look like if this year we made our world a little quieter, a little less distracting, and give ourselves an opportunity to reacquaint ourselves with… ourselves? Wouldn’t that be nice?
We live in an era in which there are two powerful opposing forces going head-to-head – our souls have never been thirstier; I am fairly certain our grandparents didn’t yearn for closeness to G-d the way we do.
And yet, we have never been so bombarded by distractions, by an endless stream of stuff, some good, some bad, but all of it robbing us of a relationship with our inner selves.
What would it look like if this year for ten minutes a day we would just sit, or walk, or even drive in silence? Do you know how powerful that would be? An opportunity, in the words of Rav Kook, to “elevate our imagination, to deepen our thoughts, to liberate our mind.”
And if that’s too much, which it might be. Why don’t we start with a few minutes every day where we put our phones down, or if you are so tethered to your phone like I am, a half hour on ‘Personal Mode,’ silencing our phones from any notificatios?
Let’s reunite with ourselves. Not to be alone, but to be lonely.
***
The third form of aloneness that so many of us experience is our distance from G-d. And here there are two categories of people, some, and I’ll include myself in this category, who simply forget about G-d more often than we’d like to admit. We aspire to think about Him, to recognize we are always in His presence, but we don’t.
And then there is another category of people who don’t forget about Him. They think about Him all the time, and they are angry. Especially this time of year. Another year in which your prayers were not answered. Another year in which everyone around you seems to be doing just fine, but not you. Some question G-d and others accuse Him; why are You making my life so difficult?
I obviously don’t have any easy answers to those in this second category, but I do want to share a thought that has been on my mind.
I’m going to share with you something that many of you will find either mind-blowing or heretical, inspiring or deflating, I don’t know. And I want to be clear, not everyone agrees to this idea, but I think it’s something worth reflecting on.
The introduction to Nefesh Hachaim, written by Rav Yitzchak Volozhin, is a biography of his father, Rav Chaim Volozhin. His father was a scholar, a paragon of kindness, a leader, an innovator, he was so many things. But there was thing his father would say all the time with a lot of emotion. He would remind his son constantly, “We were not put in this world for ourselves, we were put in this world for others.”
The simple understanding of this is that we should be kind. We should think about other people.
But if you read the rest of the book, you will see that that’s not what he meant. He meant something much deeper. We are other people. As important as it is to get to know ourselves and our unique Neshama, we also have to recognize that we are all one being. We do not have an independent existence. This is true for all of civilization, and this is especially true for the Jewish People. We are truly one.
What Rav Chaim Volozhin was conveying to his son is that it is ridiculous to only care for yourself and not everyone around you. It’s like looking out for one your fingers and not the others. They’re all important and they are all connected; they are all one.
Westerners like us struggle with this idea. We place such a premium on independence that it’s hard to think about being connected to others. You know who lives this connectedness? Our brothers and sisters in Israel. Specifically, those who serve in the army. They are part of a unit. They are ready to sacrifice their lives for the lives of others.
Hold that thought.
From Rosh Hashana through Yom Kippur, your fate is being decided. Right?
But what if I told you that it’s not true?
What if I told you that at least according to some, there is a judgment taking place this week, but not the judgment that you are thinking of.
Rav Yosef Albo in Sefer Ikarim explains that the judgment of an individual does not take place while we are here on earth. Of course, there is absolute justice but that plays out in heaven after we die.
He proves this from a principle, s’char mitzvah b’hai alma leika. There is no reward for good deeds in this world. Individual reward and punishment is exclusively in the next world.
If so, what do all the passages in the Torah refer to when they say, ‘if you do what’s right you will get rewarded ad you do what’s wrong you will get punished?’ It sure sounds like there is reward and punishment in this world?!
He explains that we are judged on earth as a nation, as a collective, but not as a person.
(See the Kli Yakar in the beginning of Bechukosai for a list of answers to this question.)
For most people, the most moving part of the Rosh Hashana-Yom Kippur davening is Unesaneh Tokef. When we get to the words of, “who will live and who will die,” many of us shudder. We think about the many people we know who did not make it through the year. We wonder what the year ahead has in store for us.
The original text of those words, first found, in Vayikra Rabbah and also found in our Rosh Hashana machzor in the section of Zichronos, has those familiar words: aizo lacherev, v’aizo l’shalom. “Who will die by sword? Who will have peace?” But it is preceded with a few absolutely key words: V’al ham’dinos bo yei’omer, which means, about the countries it is said. What that means is that the passage that we always translate as a personal judgment, the moment that G-d decides if we will live or die, is actually a collective judgment. It is a judgment being made for the entire country, community, or people, not for an individual. That’s what we are davening for during these days. For G-d to have compassion on us as a community and as a nation.
I may have just completely ruined Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur for you. I’m sorry.
But I’m also not sorry. Because this interpretation demands of us to reorient how we think about ourselves and how we think about what happens to us.
When bad things happen to us, even if we were to say that it is a punishment, it’s not necessarily because I did something wrong, it’s because the Jewish People did something wrong, and for some reason, I am the one who is being punished. When good things happen to us, it’s because the people as a whole are deserving of reward.
I personally find this invigorating. We are standing before G-d this time of year not as an individuals, but as an army.
When an army goes into war, there are casualties. Did that particular soldier make a mistake that caused him or her to get shot? No. They are part of a unit, which is part of a troop, which is part of an army.
When we come back here year after year, wondering why G-d did not give me the job I wanted, the spouse I was looking for, the health I so desperately need, instead of thinking that G-d is punishing me, maybe we should think about ourselves as part of something so much greater than just ourselves. You are soldier! And oh how we love soldiers! We send them vests and socks and poorly drawn pictures by my five-year-old, anything we can fit into an oversized duffel bag. One of my colleagues, a rabbi with a good sense of humor, not too long after October 7th asked a soldier to make a video asking his congregants to pay their dues. He figured when soldiers ask us to do things, we listen.
In all seriousness, you are a soldier, you are part of an army. What is happening to you is helping all of us. I don’t know why you were chosen for this particular mission, but recognize the impact it has on all of us.
And like the soldiers of the IDF, it’s inspiring to see you in action. You keep showing up even though G-d is holding you back from all your dreams. He’s not punishing you; He’s punishing us. And we, those who were not chosen for this special-op, those of us who have boring lives, are grateful to you for being on the front line.
Will that help you be able to forgive G-d? To be less angry at Him? I don’t know, but I hope so. And truly, from the bottom of my inspired heart, thank you for showing up and being a soldier.
Then there’s the rest of us who have absolutely no excuse to not be constantly connecting to G-d. Despite all the many things He gives us, we just keep on forgetting that He’s here in our lives. It’s embarrassing.
There’s a story of a chasid who used to go and study with Reb Chayim Halberstam of Sanz, one of the great Chassid rebbes. This Chasid would travel some distance, and on the way there and back he would pass through a small town, where he stayed for Shabbos.
The rabbi in that small town also fancied himself to be a shtickl Rebbe, though he didn’t have many followers. “I can also teach you,” he told the chasid. “I’m closer to you. Why go to Sanz?”
“In Sanz,’ explained the chossid, “they are teaching me also how to be a yode’a machshovos” — to see into the hearts of those who are sitting before them, to divine their thoughts and concerns. You can’t teach me that.”
“Really?” said the local rabbi, a little skeptical of these powers. “Then what am I thinking now?”
“That’s easy,” said the chassid. “You’re thinking about G-d.”
“Aha!” the rabbi said triumphantly. “No, I most definitely am not thinking about G-d right now!”
The chasid shook his head. “Nu. Now you know why I go to Sanz.”
He’s everywhere and He’s everything and yet, we forget about Him constantly.
Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev used to give a regular sermon with one line and one line only – “Chevra, friends, G-d exists.” Simple to say. Hard to live with.
Rav Tzadok Hakohein has a suggestion for us. In the beginning of his most popular book, Tzidkas Hatzadik he teaches us that the Talmud begins with Meseches Berachos because a bracha is the entry point to our relationship with Hashem. Blessed are YOU, ATA – we remind ourselves, even fleetingly, that we are standing before Hashem.
To think about G-d constantly, impossible. To think about Him every time we say a bracha, ideally, but also quite difficult. But can we think about Him one bracha a day?
Maybe the first blessing you say every day, to say it, imagining G-d is before you, because He is.
And if you don’t say berachos, maybe this year you could start by saying one bracha a day, slowly with intention and with awareness that He is indeed standing before you.
One year, my commitment for the entire year was that the first time every day I would say Asher Yatzar, that exquisite blessing we say after relieving ourselves, I would say it slowly and with the simple thought that I am standing before G-d. It was transformative; it impacted my entire day.
I hope to do so again this year because it is so easy, despite living an observant life, to not live a life in the presence of G-d.
Lo tov heyos ha’adam l’vado, it is so bad for us to be alone. But it is so good to be lonely.
Imagine a year in which we embraced the loneliness of being a Jew by being proud Jews AND also recognizing our role among the nations, with the simple phrase, “G-d bless you,” to all those we encounter.
Imagine a year in which we were not feeling so estranged from our true selves? A year in which we spent some time – maybe just ten minutes a day – by ourselves and gave ourselves an opportunity to meet and get to know the real me, the soul bursting and bubbling inside. Or at the very least a year in which we silenced the great distractor buzzing in our pockets so we could at least acquaint ourselves with the people around us.
Imagine a year in which we got to know G-d. A year in which we remind ourselves at least once a day how He is always standing over us. Baruch Ata – You, Hashem, are right here.
Let’s stop imagining. Let’s stop being so alone.
Let’s embrace the mission-filled loneliness of being a Jew, the incredibly vibrant loneliness of being a person with a soul, of being a part of an army, and the soothing loneliness of having an utterly unique relationship with Hashem.
Kein y’hi ratzon.
