by Ner Tamid | Nov 8, 2025 | Sermons
In the early 13th century, a fire erupted in the Jewish world. Not a literal fire, but a controversy that led to name-calling, attempted excommunications, and the banning of books. The debate revolved around the philosophical bend of the Rambam, Maimonides. Eventually though, the machlokes reached such a pitch that actual book burnings took place in France. Jews, who were opposed to the Rambam, turned to the Christian authorities, claiming his books were heresy, and in 1233, in a public square in Paris, wagonloads of Moreh Nevuchim, the Rambam’s masterful work, were gleefully burned by Dominican monks.
In the late 18th century, a different controversy rocked the Jewish world. An upstart movement, Chassidus, began to sweep across Europe. Many were vehemently opposed to the practices and ideology of this new movement and felt that it was a grave threat to the continuity of Judaism. Once again, name-calling led to excommunications, which led to Jews informing the authorities. At the height of this controversy, opponents of the Chassidim turned to the Russian government, claiming that Rav Shneur Zalman of Liadi, one of the leaders of the Chassidim, was involved in illegal activity and had him thrown in jail on trumped-up charges.
Today, it’s honestly hard to imagine how these movements and ideas were so controversial. The books of the Rambam are found in every Yeshiva. Chassidim and non-Chassidim are best of friends. What happened? How did these groups, who at one point were ready to burn books and throw people in deathly jails, move on and make peace?
There are many factors, and I don’t mean to oversimplify a complex historical process. But there are two people who I’d like to highlight who should receive the lion’s share of credit. The first is Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, the Ramban. He stood between the breach, lobbied both sides of the Moreh Nevuchim controversy, the rationalists and the mystics, and eventually got everyone to appreciate the concerns of the other side. His diplomacy led to a thaw in the dispute and with time, it faded into the history bin. The second was Rav Shnueur Zalman of Liadi himself. Despite being thrown into jail, he held his followers back from retribution, met with leaders of the other opposition, and within a generation, Chassidim and Misnagdim, were marrying their children to one another.
Today, our Orthodox world is being rocked by a new controversy. It is thankfully not here in the US, but our Orthodox brothers and sisters are fighting bitterly over the question of the Charedi draft. Both sides see the other as an existential threat. Last week, 100,000 Chareidim took to the streets, some of them employing forceful language, and bringing parts of the country to a standstill. The response, much of it from the Daati Leumi community, was fast and heavy. As students of Jewish history, we know how dangerous rhetoric can be.
Who will be our Ramban to negotiate a resolution? Who will be our Rav Shneur Zalman of Liadi to calm his respective side?
Rabbi Moshe Hauer was attempting to bridge that divide. But he is no longer with us.
I can only speak for myself when I say, I have no grand ideas. I can only speak for myself when I say that I struggle mightily to understand the Chareidi position. I can only speak for myself when I say that my heart breaks a thousand times over for the families who have been impacted so devastatingly by the war, and I am filled with infinite gratitude to those who serve. In my humble opinion, every able-bodied individual in Israel should serve in the army or in national service; a wholesale exemption to an entire community is impossible for me to wrap my head around. I also believe the State of Israel must do a better job accommodating the religious needs of the Charedi community – something they have failed to do repeatedly. And I also believe that there must be a group, a limited group, of Torah scholars, made up of Chareidim and non-Chareidim, based on some objective criteria, who are given the opportunity to study Torah undisturbed, because that is a critical component of our Jewish identity.
How do we get there? How do we overcome the entrenched views, fortified by politics and years of mistrust? I don’t have a clue.
But I do know that I have a choice.
I could choose to add fuel to this fire. I could write and post about the flaws of Chareidi society and add hatred to this inferno.
But when I think of the great leaders of our people, the Ramban, Rav Shneur Zalman of Liadi, Rabbi Hauer, I don’t think that’s what I am supposed to be doing.
Instead, not as a resolution, but as a tiny step forward to ensuring the continuity of Am Yisrael, I’d like to share what I admire about Charedi society. This is not in any way an explanation for not serving in the army; not at all. But I hope that if we, especially those of us living outside of Israel who don’t have the same skin in this fight, are able to appreciate the other side just a little more, maybe just maybe by walking in the footsteps of our great leaders, our grandchildren will be able to look back at this time, and as crazy as this may sound, they too will wonder, what was this controversy all about?
So here are a few things I admire:
- I admire their family size. Bringing children into this world is one of the most mind-blowing gifts that G-d gave humankind. While Halacha allows for birth control, Charedi society places a premium on large families. They choose to bring children, a lot of Jewish children, into this world. While those blessed with the ability to bear children in the rest of the Orthodox world weigh considerations like finances and other priorities before having more children, this society is willing to live in two-bedroom apartments, with limited means, so they could bring more life into this world. That’s a choice they make, and it’s a noble one.
- I admire their modesty standards. Two weeks ago, Hindy and I were in Israel, walking on Shabbos from one side of Jerusalem to the other. Invariably we got lost. Many times. Much of our walk took us through Charedi communities. When we stopped a man for directions, he addressed himself to me. When we stopped a woman for directions, she addressed herself to Hindy. That is not my approach to modesty, it is not demanded according to the Shulchan Aruch, and yes, there is an underbelly to some of these practices. But there is certainly what to admire in a group of people who recognize that the sexual mores in the rest of the Orthodox world are far from ideal and who instead strive for greater modesty.
- I admire their aversion to the outside world. I would not be able to handle it. But if I was being honest with myself, I really have to wonder, who is better off, the cultured, news-immersed, me, or the individual, yearning for purity, who refuses to get a smartphone?
- Lastly, I not only admire, but I am envious of their attrition rates. According to some studies, 94% of those raised Charedi identify as being Orthodox whereas 54% of those raised Daati Leumi, Religious Zionist, remain Orthodox. For all the flaws, and there are many, they are doing something right.
There is a puzzling section in our parsha. Lot, Avraham’s nephew, the man who rejected Avraham’s way of life, is saved from the city of Sedom. He is instructed by angels to run to the mountains where he will be safe. Lot refuses. לֹא אוּכַל לְהִמָּלֵט הָהָרָה. I can’t do it. Why not? His life is on the line. Why can’t he make it to the mountain?
The Medrash Rabbah shares a frightening psychological insight. When the angels encouraged Lot to run to the mountain, it wasn’t just any mountain. They were directing him to return to Avraham who lived on that mountain. And of course, Lot could have made it to the mountain. But Lot said to himself: “As long as I live away from Avraham, I could feel good about myself. I am a good person compared to those who live around me. But with Avraham, the great and righteous Avraham, I feel small. I am reminded of all the areas that I am failing in.”
“I know that my life is on the line, but living with Avraham, seeing that commitment to G-d that I don’t live by, I can’t do that. I rather take my chances.”
I have what I’d like to believe to be rational and objective issues with the Charedi lifestyle. But is it possible that part of what fuels my feelings towards this society a little bit of Lot’s discomfort? Is it that I feel judged, not by them, but by myself, because when I see them, it reminds me that I could do more, and I’m not?
I do not plan on changing my lifestyle drastically. I firmly believe in our way of life. It is guided by the Torah and guided by a firm tradition in Jewish thought, and we should not be ashamed of the way we live; we should be proud. But I have room to grow, I have things to learn from Charedim, and I think I, and the world would be better off, if instead of highlighting all the flaws, my Shabbos table and conversations with friends, instead focus on the things we admire.
Rav Yaakov Kaminetsky was one of the leading American Torah scholars of the last generation. Towards the end of his life, he visited Israel. He was quite old and very frail. He was invited to speak in many institutions, but he turned them all down. But there was one place he wanted to speak in, a small, unimportant yeshiva by the name of Kol Yaakov. I never heard of this place, I only know of its existence because Rabbi Frand once shared this story. Apparently, Kol Yaakov was the first yeshiva in Israel to allow both Ashkenazim and Sefardim to study together in a way that respected both of their traditions.
When he got up to speak, he shared the following message:
“My entire life I wanted to greet Moshiach. I now feel that I won’t have this merit; I don’t feel that I’ll live much longer. But if I cannot greet Moshiach, at least I want to be among a group of people that I know for sure, will be among those who greet Moshiach. I know that this Yeshiva will be among those that will greet him.”
We may not greet Mashiach, we may not live to see peace between the different segments of Jews living in Israel, something which I hope our children or grandchildren will merit to see. But if we cannot greet Mashiach, let’s at least be among the group of people who helped pave the way.
by Ner Tamid | Nov 2, 2025 | Sermons
On November 4th, New Yorkers will be going to the ballot box, voting for their next mayor. As I’m sure you all know, this is not your regular election. A few days ago, a letter was circulated, it was signed by over 1000 rabbis from all over the country who strongly encouraged New Yorkers to not vote for the leading candidate, Zohran Mamdani. They stated that “safety and dignity of Jews in every city” were endangered by Mamdani’s rhetoric. They were referring to many comments that he has made, such as, “We have to make clear that when the boot of the NYPD is on your neck, it’s been laced by the IDF.” Or his refusal to condemn Hamas or even to acknowledge that Hamas should put down their arms.
As the New York Times reports, in response, “a coalition of left-wing American Jewish groups critical of Israel released its own letter rejecting the “attempts by some legacy Jewish institutions” to silence “progressive and anti-Zionist voices” within the Jewish community. Another set of rabbis signed a third letter noting that Islamophobia is also on the rise and “Jewish safety cannot be built on Muslim vulnerability.” A video recently went viral, consisting of four people wearing ‘Rabbis for Mamdani’ t-shirts.
I’ve been trying to wrap my head around this phenomenon. Without simply being dismissive of a good percentage of the Jewish population, can we convey our concerns about electing Mamdani with an attempt to understand and to persuade, and not just to dismiss and denigrate?
When we speak stridently, we strengthen our base, but we do not change anyone’s mind. The Maharal writes that early on in Avraham’s life, he would debate people over their belief in idolatry, he would, as the famous Medrash teaches us, break the idols of his neighbors. It didn’t get him anywhere; monotheism did not take off using that approach. It’s only when he opened his tent, it’s only when he engaged people in dialogue, it’s only when he cared for others, that Hashem’s Name became known to the world.
In that spirit, I’d like to share an open letter this morning to our brothers and sisters who plan on voting for Zohran Mamdani. While no one in this room is voting in the New York city elections, this message is not limited to New York. There is a growing rift in our community, growing wider every day. We need to figure out how to have a healthy dialogue, and this is my small attempt at doing so.
Dear Jewish Mamdani Supporters,
I write this letter to you clouded with emotions. It is impossible for me to talk about Israel and the safety of the Jewish people without emotion, especially as the dust from the October 7th attacks have not yet settled, especially as the bodies of some our family members are still in Gaza.
I know that you too cannot have this conversation without emotion. You have seen imagery of the devastation of many Gazans who were caught in the crossfire of a war they did not want. While we will argue about whose reports to believe and how may actually died, there is no doubt that innocents were killed, and that is tragic.
I commend your care and concern for people beyond your immediate circles. These values, such as every human life is precious, or that we should care about all of humankind – not just those in our immediate circles, are born out of our shared tradition. The notion of Tzelem Elokim and Tikkun Olam are values that we both inherited from our shared ancestors. Your universalism is something I admire. It’s an area that my community can learn from you and grow in.
However, that same shared value system, our Torah, also teaches us about priorities. If a person cares about their neighbor and not their own brother or sister, that is a moral failing. While all people are equal before G-d, we are responsible for our family before we are responsible for others. When Avram was informed that his nephew, Lot, was a captive of war, Avram did not first dispassionately analyze who started the war. He heard his nephew was in danger, he immediately armed himself and rescued him. Mind you, Avram and Lot did not get along, but Avram taught us and the Torah later codified, that family comes first. If you were being attacked, even though you and I likely do not agree about many things, I would drop everything and come to your defense, and I hope you would do the same for me. Because that’s what family does for one another; that is the value system of our heritage.
It would be nice if we could care about everyone equally, but in the real world, life gets messy, and we have to make morally complex decisions. Will innocent Gazans die when Israel defends itself against Hamas? Yes. But the alternative is Hamas remaining in power and, as they have publicly stated, endless October 7th attacks. Our tradition teaches us that we are first responsible to family.
Right now, our family, whether it is our Israeli cousins who are being ostracized by the international community just because they have an Israeli passport, the young Jew on campus who is afraid to acknowledge her faith publicly, or the Jew on the street who is forced to look at his surroundings before walking down the streets of New York – our family needs us right now, our family is in danger.
My dear brothers and sisters, I understand that you may be bothered, maybe even embarrassed by Zionism, the notion of self-determination that is expressed in a Jewish state. Mamdani does not believe such a state should exist; it’s undemocratic. And while Israel is one of the safest places for Muslims to live freely in the Middle East, it is true, that by ensuring that there remain a Jewish majority, there is something undemocratic about the State of Israel.
But let’s make a few things clear – if the solution to the conflict in Israel is a one-state solution, there is no doubt that it will not remain a democracy of any form. Look at Gaza, look at the West Bank. Does it make sense to be antizionist and bring Israel down for the sake of an Islamic state?
But more importantly, and more close to home, what is the alternative? I know that Mamdani may not get this, but you and I who share a history know how precarious it is to be a Jew. Where do we go when the next country turns its back on us? A pure democracy is great, but as a Jew with a rudimentary knowledge of Jewish history, my survival is far more important. Zionism is not an ideology; it’s a matter of survival.
My brothers and sisters, I imagine you are wondering to yourself, what’s the big deal that Mamdani is an anti-Zionist? He has made many statements committing to the safety of Jewish New Yorkers and has spoken out strongly against antisemitism.
I agree with you – criticizing Israel and Israeli policies is not antisemitic. If it were, half of Israel would be considered antisemites. We too fight tooth and nail over what the State of Israel should and should not do. I too struggle to define what is and what is not an antisemitic remark.
What troubles me about Mamdani’s remarks, and frankly, what scares me, is the absurd double-standards that he and so many others have when it comes to Israel, what troubles and scares me is the myopic view of the conflict that ignores so much history.
Why not the Uyghurs? Why not the Sudanese? Why not anyone else?
And why are we only focusing on what happened on October 8th and forgetting what precipitated the response? Why are we ignoring the Israeli governments who offered to help establish Palestinian states twice in the past twenty years and both times were rejected by Palestinian leaders? And yes, why are we ignoring our connection to the land that goes all the way back to the year 1949 BCE when Avraham started living in the land of Israel?
The Soviets, who came up with this antizionist antisemitism split, claimed that they were not one and the same. We hate Zionists they told us, not the Jews. I don’t think there is anyone who still believes that the Soviets were not rabid antisemites. How do we keep falling for the same trick?
You know who does not fall for this trick? The thug on the street does not stop the Jew he is about to beat and ask him his views on Zionism. They understand very clearly that when people paint Zionists as evil it simply means Jews.
And it’s not just words. Again, I don’t expect others to understand this, but I hope you, my brothers and sisters, do. Our great-grandparents, after being exiled from our homeland, Israel, two thousand years ago, traveled the world. Sometimes the countries that hosted us treated us pretty well. Some of our greatest collective memories took place under Islamic rule. But for much of those two thousand years, we were persecuted, exiled, executed, and massacred. And one lesson we learned is that violent acts do not happen in a vacuum. There is a process. It may start as something benign, but it evolves into something that is deathly. As Heinrich Heine ominously wrote, “In a place they burn books, they will also burn people.” When one group of people is singled-out time and time again, when they are continuously vilified, the leap to violence is a small one. We are seeing this, day in and day out, on the streets of New York.
And so my brothers and sisters, this is not about politics. I don’t care if you vote Democrat, Republican, progressive, liberal, independent, or conservative. This is not about Islamophobia; I share with you a dream of world peace, especially with our Arab neighbors, our cousins. But I also share with you a history that can and must inform us. I also share a destiny that will forever bind us. I am concerned about you, I am concerned about us, about the short and long-term implications that your vote will have on New York Jews and Jews across the country. Though I have absolute faith in G-d’s promise of the eternal existence of our people, we have a responsibility to look at for our family, in Israel, and here in the United States. The stakes are far greater than housing and affordability. Your vote will directly impact the Jewish People’s future, your future, our future.
Regardless of what happens this week, I look forward to continuing our conversation.
With a broken and hopeful heart,
Yisrael Motzen
by Ner Tamid | Oct 26, 2025 | Sermons
Thank you to the entire congregation for all your care and concern this past week; it is deeply appreciated. Many of you have asked me to share reflections on Rabbi Hauer’s life, which I hope to do, but not today. One of the most profound lessons the community learned this past week, not from Rabbi Hauer, but from his wife, was from her decision to not let the community know about his passing until after Simchas Torah. There is, as King Shlomo taught us, a time to mourn and a time to celebrate. This Shabbos is a time to celebrate. We have not one, not two, not three, but four people in our congregation who are celebrating their upcoming weddings. I’d like to wish a Mazel Tov to Meir Soskil and Brianna Loshin, Levi Lowenstein and Vicki Dina. Mazel Tov to Bentzion Shamberg and Itta Werdiger, and Mazel Tov to Leizer Seppa and Dani Michanie. Mazel Tov! What a joyous day indeed.
…
I think many of us take marriage as a given, which speaks to the values that many of us grew up with, but especially on a morning like this one, it’s worth highlighting how counter-cultural marriage is. As you all know, the rate of marriages has dropped significantly over the past few decades. In 1949, 79% of Americans were married. Today, approximately, the number has dropped to 47%.
I’m not a sociologist and I’m not going to claim to explain why that is. But in a world flooded with people who do not want to get married, who scorn marriage, I want to highlight some of the values that our tradition stands for that we learn from our parsha.
Value #1 – The purpose of life.
As a child, I was always bothered by the ark. There were so many ways G-d could have saved Noach and the animals. He could have sent him to some distant place away from the floodwaters. He could have told Noach to go home, lock the door behind him, and G-d would ensure he would survive. Let’s be honest, fitting the entire animal kingdom into a ship was nothing short of miraculous, and if that’s the case, why make Noach have to work so hard, feeding the animals for a full year?
There is a beautiful explanation that suggests we are mistaken when we think the purpose of the teivah filled with animals was to save the world. G-d could have done that in any way. The purpose of placing all the animals in this ark was to rebuild the world. “Olam chesed yibaneh, the world is built on kindness.” The world had become corrupt, self-centered, the mighty taking advantage of the weak. To rebuild the world, humankind had to be reminded why we are here; we are here to serve others.
Rabbi Hauer would often quote the words of Rav Chaim Volozhin who used to rebuke his son whenever he saw him focusing only on his own needs, even his own spiritual needs. He would remind him, “Man wasn’t created for himself but to serve others in any way he or she can.”
Abraham Maslow famously describes the hierarchy of human needs and placed self-actualization at the top. His theory, which deeply impacted our society, places my own needs and my own growth at the center of life. In Judaism, that is a step along the way. The highest rung of growth we can attain is not self-actualization, but self-transcendence, when we live our lives dedicated to others.
G-d placed Noach in a teyvah with all these animals so that he could care for them, give to them, live for them, and in doing so recreate what it means to be a human.
The verse that speaks of marriage, “V’hayu l’basar echad, and they will be one flesh,” means, according to the Seforno, that a husband and wife act as one, they become one unit. They live their lives for one another. Inasmuch as every human being will always have their own inner world, to be married means to go from being me to we.
This idea is not only countercultural, it’s really hard. Maybe to live this way for a while, but for a lifetime? A lifetime of giving? It’s exhausting.
Noach himself eventually ran out of steam. He couldn’t maintain this other-focused living. He eventually planted a vineyard and drowned himself in a drunken loneliness. He could no longer care for the animals and he could no longer care for his family.
Which leads us to countercultural idea #2. Judaism teaches us that commitments are more or less forever. Yes, there is a place for divorce, there is a place to cut someone off, but those situations must be so incredibly rare. Avraham, who our sages use as a foil to contrast with Noach, had a nephew, Lot, who he fought with, who he parted ways with, but when Lot needed him, Avraham was there. Dedication, commitment, family is “for keeps.”
I play a little game with my children sometimes – it’s a strange game, I know. I ask them, “What do you think will happen if you do something wrong? Like if you spill all the drinks on the floor. Do you think I will still love you?” Then I up the ante, “What if you burn the house down? Will I still love you?” And then I assure them that yes, I will love you no matter what.
In a world where people cannot talk to one another because they vote differently, in which marriages are no longer until death do us part but until we get bored, Judaism teaches us through models like Avraham, and through G-d Himself, who tells us that no matter what you do, I will love you no matter what.
Countercultural idea #3 – Who comes first?
When the Torah introduces Noach, it states, “These are the children of Noach,” and then instead of listing his children, it speaks of his good deeds. Only in the next verse does it tell us who his children were. Some see this as a praise, but I wonder if the opposite is true. Perhaps, perhaps, the Torah is subtly hinting to the fact that he placed his own accomplishments before his family. Whereas Noach is described as a Tzadik, Avraham is described as a father. Avraham Avinu. Family comes before all.
And this is something I also learned from Rabbi Hauer. He was, hands down, the busiest person I knew. Pick the biggest issues facing the Jewish People, he was at the forefront giving it his all. I would travel with him at the end of a long day, and he would be drained. At the shiva house, a rabbi asked Rebbetzin Hauer how the stress manifested itself in their home. And she said, “You’re not going to like my answer.”
“We didn’t see it,” she said. “He came home and was ecstatic to see us.” His children related that they felt like they were the most important in the world to him. And they were. I watched time and time again, as he would interrupt an important meeting to call his mother in Israel for a daily check-in. I helped him figure out his schedule, how can I be in Israel to moderate a complex issue, in Washington to testify, and yet, be there for my family. I was shocked how he would take calls from his children throughout the day even if they were calling to say hello.
I would wonder, there are weighty issues that need to be dealt with, there are people who are depending on him with global ramifications, is it really right to miss these meetings so he could be home for dinner?
And he would remind me, “There is only one person who is my wife’s husband, there is only one person who is my child’s father. Everything else could be done by other people, except to be there for my family.”
And so he put the world on hold to be a good father, to be a good son, to be a good spouse.
To all those getting married in the upcoming weeks, we wish you Mazel Tov. To all those looking to get married, we pray with you that you find your spouse. To all those who are already married, we hope and pray that we maintain and deepen our relationships. It’s not always easy, it goes against the cultural tides, but our Torah teaches us that living for others is the purpose of life, unbreakable commitment is G-dly, and that family always comes first. “Tzei min hateiva, go out of the Ark,” G-d tells us, “And go rebuild the world.”
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)
