by Ner Tamid | Jan 25, 2026 | Sermons
I was going to talk about the upcoming storm, but it seems a little frivolous to discuss snow when the world seems to be going up in flames. Aside from the local unrest, which is worthy of its own analysis and drasha, our hearts and minds are always on Israel. Right now, there’s an American war ship making its way across the Atlantic to be stationed near Iran. A general in the Iranian Revolutionary Guard threatened that Iran has its finger on the trigger ready to attack the US and Israel if they are attacked first. And of course, every human being with half a heart, every person who cares about human rights, should be broken over the mass murder of anywhere between 5 and 20,000 Iranian protestors who just want to be free.
Prime Minister Netanyahu, who during past protests, was quite vocal in his support of the protestors, is noticeably silent. According to reports, he asked President Trump not to attack Iran as Israel is not ready for an Iranian assault. That is very unsettling news.
Over the years, when Netanyahu has addressed himself to the Iranian People, he almost always invokes the great historic relationship between Iran and Israel, between the great Persian Empire and the people of Israel. Netanyahu likes to place the blame for all of Iran’s antisemitism at the feet of the Ayatollah. I’d like to take a moment to set the record straight.
While it is true that the Ayatollah is probably the greatest living threat to both Israel and Jewish People, it is not exactly accurate to say that Iran, before the Revolution, was a safe haven for Jews, or that Persia was one of the greatest allies of the Jewish People. It is true, Darius, Emperor of Persia, who according to some traditions was actually the son of Queen Esther, granted the Jewish People the right to return to Israel and rebuild the Temple in the 6th century BCE, and for that we are eternally grateful. And it is true that over the next few hundred years, the Jewish community in Babylon, which was part of the Persian Empire, thrived, setting the stage for the development and recording of the Talmud. But the little love affair between the people of Persia and Jews was ultimately short-lived.
By the 4th and 5th century, Jews were being singled out by the ruler Yazdegerd II and persecuted across the country. From the 7th – 13th century, Jews in Persia were not allowed to ride horses, or bear arms, and had to pay extra taxes and wear identifying clothing. In the 14th and 15th century, not only did the government discriminate against Jews, but converts to Islam were often accused of heresy and killed at the stake. This is what one historian who visited Iran in the mid-19th century had to say about how the Iranians treated the Jewish People:
“The [Jewish People] are obliged to live in a separate part of town … for they are considered as unclean creatures. … Under the pretext of their being unclean… should they enter a street, inhabited by Muslims, they are pelted… with stones and dirt. … For the same reason, they are prohibited to go out when it rains (or snows); for it is said the rain would wash dirt off them, which would sully the feet of the Muslims… Sometimes the Persians intrude into the dwellings of the Jews and take possession of whatever please them. Should the owner make the least opposition in defense of his property, he incurs the danger of atoning for it with his life. … If … a Jew shows himself in the street during the three days of the Katel… he is sure to be murdered.”
During WW2, the Nazis established an informal alliance with Iran and helped the Iranians publish antisemitic textbooks to be used in the schools. After the Six-Day War, all shuls were kept closed for two months for fear of retribution. And even under the rule of the Shah, while the Jewish community prospered, the Shah had Jews executed for conspiring with Israel and he believed that the Jewish community as a whole were trying to have him killed.
With friends like these…
Despite this very dark history, I’d like to believe that the people on the streets of Iran would love to be friends of the Jewish People. And even if I’m wrong, even if the long history of antisemitism is in the blood and soil of Iran, there is still something I believe that every Jew should do for them based on a fascinating insight found in our parsha:
We are all well-acquainted with the image of Pharoah running around the streets of Egypt on the night of Pesach. We know that he finally finds Moshe and begs him to take the Jewish People and leave Egypt immediately. Though in the past he refused to allow the Jews to take their children and cattle and sheep, now, Pharoah tells them that everyone and everything must go. What we often miss is one request that Pharoah makes of Moshe.
In chapter 12, passuk 32, Pharoah says, “Take your sheep, take your flock, like you said, and go!” And then he adds: “וּבֵֽרַכְתֶּ֖ם גַּם־אֹתִֽי” please pray for me. Pharoah asked Moshe to pray for him, for his wellbeing and for his success.
The Ramban writes that of course, Moshe ignored him. There is no way that the Jewish People were going to pray for their arch enemy. That makes a lot of sense.
However, Rav Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin writes, I disagree. אלא ודאי התפללו עליו. “He most certainly prayed for Pharoah.” Meaning, at the same moment that Moshe was holding his hand over the sea, causing the waters of the Yam Suf to drown Pharoah, he was also praying for Pharoah’s wellbeing. How? Why?
The answer can be found in a Gemara in Berachos. Rabbi Meir, the Gemara tells us, had some people in his neighborhood who made his life a living hell. They harassed him and they threatened his life. He had little political power but he was a holy rabbi with spiritual power and so he decided to pray for their demise. However, his wise wife Beruriah, heard him praying and told him that he was mistaken. “Don’t pray for their death,” she said. “Pray for them to change.”
What stands at the core of these two stories is a belief in the ultimate goodness and value of every human being. Yes, someone may be acting in a despicable fashion, someone may be making your life miserable, but they are still a person created b’tzelem Elokim. When we need to, we will fight; we will drown you in the Yam Suf to protect ourselves and we will bomb your headquarters to stay safe. But the Torah is teaching us that at the very same time, we are expected to see the humanity behind even of our greatest enemies.
Daven for the Ayatolah? I don’t know. That’s not something I can bring myself to do. But daven for the people of Iran, even if they aren’t really our friends? Yes. That is something that we can and must do.
As I mentioned this is the approach of Rav Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin. He believed that Moshe was supposed to daven for Pharoah. And yet, the Ramban disagrees. He did not believe we need to go this far. However, there is another current event in the Middle East where I am confident that even the Ramban would agree that we should all be praying for.
This past week, a terrible tragedy took place in Yerushalayim at an illegal Charedi daycare. It’s still not clear exactly what happened, but it seems like there was overheating in this facility and it caused 53 children were admitted to the hospital, and 2 children, one 3 months old and one 6 months old, died.
The tensions in Israel between the Charedi community and the rest of the population are at an all time high. People are understandably furious at this community’s lack of public service, especially after October 7th, when so many soldiers have been killed and so many more have had their lives disrupted due to endless time spent in the reserves. Many people in Israel accused the Charedi population of an overall lack of responsible parenting and saw this tragedy as a result of a culture of lawlessness.
One such person who felt this way is a man by the name of Chaggai Luber. Chagai, a religious Zionist, lost his 24-year-old son, Yehonatan, in Gaza last year. Chaggai has been an outspoken critic of the Charedi world. He has written in the past of his extreme discomfort saying Kaddish for his son in a Charedi shul surrounded by young men the same age as his son who are not serving in the army. And so this past week, Chaggai joined the many Israelis who felt disgusted and, in some ways, smug about the daycare tragedy.
But then his wife, perhaps following in the footsteps of Bruriah, brought something to his attention. Chani Katz, the mother of one the children who died in that daycare, had visited the Luber’s during shiva. Not only that, when she came to the shiva house, she brought with her a heart-shaped necklace bearing Yehonatan’s image — part of a jewelry project she launched after October 7, to commemorate those killed in the war.
Chaggai, in a Facebook post, wrote how in that moment everything changed. The Charedim were no longer a faceless foe. These were people, brothers and sisters, and heartbroken mothers. He writes:
והיא עמדה לפני, אמא במלא כאבה,
במלא צערה.
במלא אובדנה.
“And I saw her standing before me. A mother filled with hurt. Filled with pain. Filled with loss.”
ומה קרה לי, אב שכול שהצטרפתי לחגיגה
ונסחפתי, אפילו במחשבה, לאותו מחול האשמות נורא.
כשהמתים עוד מוטלים לפנינו, עוד לפני הקבורה.
“What happened to me, a bereaved father, that I joined in the celebration [against the Charedim]? I got carried away, even though it was just in thought, to that demonic dance while the dead were still before us, still unburied?”
והתחרטתי וכמעט שקרעתי קריעה
“And I regretted it. And I almost tore my clothes in mourning.”
If the Netziv says we should be praying for our enemies, then we should be praying and most certainly not celebrating the downfall of our brothers and sisters even if we may be ideologically opposed. If the Netziv says we should be praying for our enemies, we most certainly should not be vindicative to those in our own lives who may make our lives difficult and even miserable. They are people. Jews. Brothers and sisters. We must protect ourselves and fight for what we believe in, but we cannot lose sight of their humanity.
***
The Medrash tells us that Moshe’s prayers were successful. Pharoah survived the drowning at the sea. He saw the light; he realized he was wrong, and he became an outspoken advocate for morality, for truth, for all that is good. May goodness prevail, and may our enemies, both nationally and personally, all see the light.
by Ner Tamid | Jan 11, 2026 | Sermons
Throughout our history, some Jews have run from danger and others engaged in battle. Some Jews have built towering walls and others built sturdy bridges. Some Jews lived a life of fear and others lived a life of courage. In this era of extreme unrest in which world order and Jewish order seem to be built on the quicksand of Pisom and Ramses, our community, people like us, have an incredibly important role to play.
Allow me to explain.
This past Sunday, Nicolas Maduro stood in a packed courtroom. The question of whether or not he should have been captured was not up for discussion. The only question was whether or not justice could be served. Who could be trusted to not be swayed by politics in a climate of extreme partisanship? Who has proven themselves able to not settle until justice is served?
92-year-old, Alvin Hellerstein, was chosen as the judge – and for good reason. Despite being a Columbia Law School graduate with impeccable credentials, most firms refused to hire him. After all, he was a Jew, and this was the 1950’s. But he didn’t run away; he engaged, finally finding a place to work and quickly moving up the ladder. In the 70’s, he was an active participant in the fight to free Russian Refuseniks. After 9/11, he presided over all the numerous hearings between victims of the attacks, airlines, and New York City, balancing empathy and justice like no other. He had Harvey Weinstein thrown into jail and Michael Cohen released. Most impressively, he managed to annoy both former President Obama and President Trump.
He is also an Orthodox Jew. He once told an interviewer that he likes to schedule difficult sentencing hearings on Fridays so that he could use Shabbos to reflect on the case. And although he acknowledges that religion has no place in a courtroom, he admits that his Torah values are a part of who he is and make their way into his rulings. In his words, “Part of my accountability is to the Court of Appeals, where I can be reversed, and I often am. Another is my account to the individuals involved directly in the process. And third, I have to account to G-d. My purpose in life is to be as good a judge as I can be, and I have to ask [G-d] for strength and wisdom in performing that job.”
He believes, like we claim to, that Jews should be out and proud in the public square, that Judaism has what to say about every complex issue, and that in a morally-bereft world, it is our responsibility to be in the fray, navigating good from bad. He is a Jew who does not run from danger, but engages in battle, who lives not with fear, but with courage.
On Sunday, while Judge Hellerstein was presiding over this case in New York City, a few miles away, in Lakewood, New Jersey, a group of rabbis were gathering to discuss AI and its impact on the Jewish Orthodox community. They highlighted the fact that AI in particular and technology in general can foster dependency and addiction, can negatively impact human relationships, and can lead people to serious Torah transgressions. I don’t think there is any room to argue with those conclusions.
However, they then unanimously agreed that they have to work harder on eliminating all usages of AI. Unlike Judge Hellerstein, their approach to challenge is to create better walls, and honestly, I do not fault them at the slightest.
Who could deny the terrible impact social media has had on our youth’s self-esteem and well-being? Who could argue that the internet has taken a vice which necessitated going to a convenience store and slickly hiding a magazine under a newspaper, to unfettered access, causing immeasurable damage to the intimate lives of our entire society? The internet is a cesspool of toxicity and immorality. And these rabbis chose to stay away from it.
The question of how to deal with such dangers goes back to the early days of our peoplehood. Egypt was the mecca of corruption and decadence, and our ancestors took two very different approaches in dealing with it. Eleven of the tribes chose to hide far away from the center of Egyptian culture in a city called Goshen. There was no WiFi in Goshen, they dressed differently than all of society, they built their own self-imposed ghetto. And then there was Yosef. He was an Egyptian and dressed the part. He lived in the capital and interacted with the men and women of Egyptian culture. Two models – two legitimate models, for the ages.
I think it’s safe to say that if you are in this room, you identify with Yosef and his attempt to navigate a complicated world. You too want to take the best of American culture and bridge it with the Torah. You too want to engage in technology but expertly separate between the holy and the impure.
Unfortunately, too often that attempt at nuance translates into watering Judaism down. Too often, those of us who try to walk the tightrope end up lazily taking some of Halacha seriously and disregarding the chapters that don’t fit our lifestyle comfortably. Too often, I hear variations of the following type of question: “Rabbi, I don’t want politics. I don’t want stringencies. Is this allowed? And by the way, I’m not really asking for myself, I’m asking for a friend.” You know, just in case the answer’s no. And that only includes the people who are even asking the questions.
What we too often fail to realize, is that to be Yosef Jews, to be Jews who engage in battle, we can’t have less convictions, we must have more.
What those rabbis gathering in Lakewood may not have noticed is that the walls of Goshen have fallen; the ability to separate yourself from society is a farce in the 21st century, whether you live in New York City or Lakewood. But what that means is that we, the Yosefs of the Jewish People, have a greater responsibility to the Jewish community than ever.
We do not agree that our children should not go to college, fine. But that means that we must be preparing our teens to go out into the world and have such strong Jewish convictions that nothing will faze them.
We don’t agree with segregated kiddushes, fine. But that means that we must show the world how people of the opposite gender can interact, being friendly not flirty.
We don’t agree with all-out-internet bans, fine. But that means that we must be honest with ourselves, not just children but as adults, about the internet’s dangers, and take responsible steps to curb them.
We don’t agree with running away from society, fine. But that means that we must be more confident in what it means to live the life of a Torah Jew.
To be a Yosef is awesome. But it necessitates not watering down but being on fire.
Judaism was almost lost on the slave-fields of Egypt. Apathy had set in. Our ancestors were overwhelmed by the stress and were seduced by the pleasure that Egyptian life had to offer. (See Mesilas Yesharim Chapter 2 and Rashi on the “free fish” Bamidbar 11:5). Our Sages teach us that what kept us alive was the nashim tzidkaniyos, the righteous women. You know what they did?
They harnessed the sexuality that was rampant in Egypt and used it for holiness. They met their husbands in the fields, they aroused them and ensured that there would be future generations of Jewish children. They were Yosef Jews who expertly distinguished between the holy and impure and we are here today because of them.
So once again, throughout our history, some Jews have run from danger and others engaged in battle. Some Jews built towering walls and others built sturdy bridges. Some lived a life of fear and others lived a life of courage.
The world today, with its revolutions, unrest, political violence, and extreme moral confusion, needs us Yosefs more than ever. To succeed, the Yosefs of the world do not need less, they need more. More passionate prayer, more fidelity to Jewish Law, more Torah knowledge, more fire. Let’s lead the way.
by Ner Tamid | Jan 3, 2026 | Sermons
They say a story of a small town in Eastern Europe in the 19th century in which a child’s body was found in a lake. The Jewish community gathers in the shul to discuss what they should do. Blood libel charges were certainly going to arise, and they had to plan on how to protect themselves from the inevitable violence that would follow.
As they argue back and forth, a man bursts into the room, and with a smile on his face says, “I have wonderful news! We don’t have to worry!” They all look up, puzzled, and he explains, “Baruch Hashem! The child in the lake – it turns out she was Jewish!”
Jews are known to have a really dark sense of humor. Many see it as a defense mechanism for all the anxiety we’ve experienced over the ages. Laughing about antisemitism and death give us a much-needed release for all our pent-up fears.
Another story, this one of a man on his deathbed, surrounded by his family. Everyone’s crying, holding his hand, and trying to give him comfort as his soul starts to slip away.
Suddenly, he breathes in heavily through his nose and opens his eyes. “What’s that smell?” he asks. His children tell him that their mother baked some cinnamon rugelach. He whispers to his son, “Please, go to the kitchen, and get me one. I would love to have Mama’s delicious rugelach just one more time.”
A moment later, the son returns to his father empty-handed. “I’m sorry. Mama said they’re for shiva.”
While some of us, myself included, like to talk and joke about death, there is also a Jewish trend to not mention death at all. There is a custom brought down in the Kol Bo, a 14th century legal work, how when someone passed away, they would take all the water in the home outside and pour it out. They did this was to inform the neighbors that someone inside the house had died without saying those words. Many Jews will not say the word cancer, they will say yenneh machalah, which is Yiddish for, that disease. This follows the Talmud’s practice of not saying leprosy, which was a fatal disease in their day, but rather say, “davar acher,” something else.
So, should we be joking about death? Should we never say the word death? What’s the right approach?
The Sefer Hachasidim says it best, when the author writes, “Do not believe in superstitions, but still it is best to be heedful of them.” In other words, likely nothing will happen to you for making a dark joke or saying the word cancer, but it’s not a bad idea to not do so.
But while there is ambiguity around talking about death, there is consensus that we should be thinking about death. The ability to think about our mortality is one of the greatest gifts that G-d gives us for a host of reasons:
First of all, it reminds us to plan for our death. Unfortunately, I have officiated too many funerals in my life and there are two types of scenarios that play out. One, a person dies and the family in a state of grief and shock have to scramble and make decisions for funeral arrangements. Option two, the deceased, at some point in the years prior, spoke to their family or a lawyer or even went to Sol Levinson’s and made plans for the funeral. It is so easy to give one’s family the gift of one less stressor on the most difficult day of their lives.
A second benefit of thinking of death is that it can remind us to fill out a medical directives form. Too often, a patient is incapacitated and unable to make decisions for themselves. The family is left with the impossible challenge of trying to do what their sick relative would have wanted. Reminding ourselves that we will all die is also a reminder that we may possibly be ill before we die. Again, it is so easy to give one’s family the gift of one less stressor during one of the most difficult periods in their lives.
But it’s not just for those around us that remembering death is valuable. It’s valuable for ourselves. There is a shocking Medrash on a passuk in Bereishis: “And G-d saw that all that He had created was tov me’od, very good.” Says the Medrash, ‘Good’ refers to life; ‘very good’ refers to death.
Why is it good? Very simple. Here’s another story. This one is not a joke. It’s a fictitious story by therapist, Lauren Slater:
“The patient was depressed. He was a wet rag. He was suicidal. The psychiatrist had tried every pill and combination of pills he could conceive of, you name it. And still the man was depressed.
He underwent a series of six shock treatments, lying bound on a bed while they juiced his brain, waking up in a fog, his eyes burning. And still the man was depressed. He tried to hang himself, to slash his wrists, to overdose on pills; he even tried to shoot himself but missed and survived without so much as a scar. And now the psychiatrist had grown bored with him. Three times a week, the man came in and either said nothing or talked about his failures. The clock ticked away. The man began to complain of headaches. He felt physically ill. The psychiatrist suspected it was psychosomatic. He paid little attention to the man. Still, his complaints grew louder. At last the psychiatrist referred the man to neurologist, who could see inside his skull using instruments. Three days later, the neurologist called the psychiatrist. “There is nothing wrong with him,” the neurologist said. And the psychiatrist sighed, almost disappointed.
When the man came in for his next appointment, he asked, “Did you speak to the neurologist?” The psychiatrist nodded gravely and said, “Yes, I did.”
The man leaned forward in his seat. His dull eyes flickered — with terror. “And?” he said. “Well,” said the psychiatrist, drawing it out, with no plan or premeditation. “I’m sorry, but the neurologist says you have only three months to live.” The man shot back in his seat, stared for a long time at the ceiling, and then left abruptly.
The man was now in a rush. He booked a flight to Greece, and travelled to Crete, and saw dazzling white sand, he ate from a big buffet in the Caribbean. He sent his psychiatrist postcards from countries all around the world. Here I am in Russia, he wrote. I was in a bar all night, he wrote. I am taking cooking classes in Taiwan. I swam in the Dead Sea. Eventually, though, the months passed and the man did not die. Nor did he seem to be dying.
The man, of course, doesn’t die. He keeps burning brightly. Eventually he goes back to the psychiatrist who tells him his disease is in remission. And a year later he goes back again, only to find the office door open and the psychiatrist away. He takes the opportunity to open the filing cabinet and read his own file. He flipped to the end of his chart and read: Tried to inject some existential urgency into the Man’s condition. Ethically questionable. Radical intervention. Told patient he was dying. Three months to live. Patient’s affect changed considerably. And the next note said: Postcard from patient. Depression in complete remission. Will continue with intervention. Benefits outweigh risks.
The man slowly closed his folder. On the doctor’s desk, he saw the American Journal of Psychiatry. Next to an advertisement for Effexor was an article written by his doctor. He looked at its title: “Mortality Therapy: A Case Study.”
“‘Good’ refers to life; ‘tov me’od, very good’ refers to death.”
We are celebrating an Aufruf today. About a year ago, Rabbi Seth Phillips joined our shul. His outgoing character, menchlichkeit, and kindness made him an immediate friend to so many in our shul and in the community-at-large. We were all so thrilled for him when he met and got engaged to Joanne O’Connor. The other day I was meeting with this lovely couple and Seth mentioned to me what motivated him to find love later in life. And he quoted a verse from Hallel, Lo hameitim y’hal’lu Kah, the dead do not give praise to G-d. What he was saying is that as we age, death hovers us. Some are debilitated by fear of death, but others allow their mortality to motivate them to live every day of their precious life to the fullest. We hope and pray that Seth and Joanne live a full and long life full of blessing and joy.
Egyptian culture was notoriously anti-death. The tombs filled with the deceased’s belongings was a way of saying, “Don’t worry about anything. We are here forever.” Even the hairstyle of the Egyptians, a shaved head, not letting people know if you are greying or balding is an expression of this ignore-death culture. But it’s not just a relic of the past. When Jeff Bezos shaved his head, that was his way of saying, I’m not going anywhere. When the market for anti-aging products is at 80 billion dollars and projected to grow to 120 billion dollars in the next few years, that is our society’s way of ignoring the inevitable reality of our demise. We do so at our own peril.
Yaakov Avinu recalls the day of death and makes burial instructions so his family can know exactly what to do when he dies. Yaakov Avinu recalls the day of death and uses it as an opportunity to speak to his children and share the many messages he had held on to for way too long.
Someone recently shared with me a story of a survivor of Auschwitz who was on the train to the camps, separated from her parents and alone with her eight-year-old younger brother. She looked down at his feet and noticed that he wasn’t wearing shoes. “What’s wrong with you?” she creams. “How could you be so stupid to not wear shoes?” In the commotion and crush of bodies they were separated. Her brother didn’t make it out of Auschwitz. Those were the last words she ever said to him.
She committed, after liberation, to remind herself in every conversation with a loved one that it just might be the last. The petty fight that you don’t even remember how it started dissipates in the face of death. The estrangement of friends, of family, is so obviously unwarranted when we remind ourselves of our demise. “‘Tov’ refers to life; ‘tov me’od’ refers to death.”
So talk and joke about death or don’t talk and joke about death – whatever makes you comfortable. But let’s do ourselves and those around us a favor and think about death. The key to a good life is not shaving our head and having less wrinkles. It’s remembering that every day and every conversation just may be our last.
by Ner Tamid | Dec 27, 2025 | Sermons
About fifteen years ago, I was at the library with my oldest daughter, Tehila. She was a toddler and I was helping her pick out books. I hadn’t been to the children’s section in a library in decades, and I quickly realized something significant had changed. As I flipped through children’s books, I noticed that nearly every single book had incorporated mental health pointers into the plot. With the exception of Peppa Pig, [the one book I believe should be publicly burned due to their ridiculous depictions of fathers as bumbling fools,] the rest of the books all shared beautiful insights around self-awareness and mental health. One book taught toddlers to recognize their unique skillsets, another taught them how to understand their emotions, another taught them how to verbalize how they feel. And I remember thinking to myself, this is amazing, look how far we’ve come as a society.
When I was a child, the kid who couldn’t sit still in class was thrown out of class. The teen who was always sad, was told to smile. The preteen who had a crying fit because she was afraid to go to school for an unexplained reason was pushed out of her parent’s car and told to deal with it. We didn’t have a clue. I was thrilled to see that a new generation would be brought up with all the lessons and insights that would make their lives so much better.
But like all good things, sometimes too much of it is not good at all.
Over the course of the following decade, we went from not diagnosing people who suffered from mental illness to every single person getting a diagnosis. On TikTok today, you will find influencers who are telling their millions of followers that they’re not sad, they’re depressed. You’re not nervous, you are dealing with anxiety. Your misbehaving child has a disobedience disorder, and the slightly awkward teen is on the never-ending spectrum of autism. I remember reading an article that claimed that Yitzchak Avinu had Down Syndrome. Maybe he was, I don’t know. But if a therapist would diagnose someone after reading a mere eighteen pessukim that describe someone’s life that would be malpractice. Instead of ensuring that Yitzchak fit a very specific criteria for a diagnosis, the lazy author decided there was enough there to slap a label on a man he never met and knew almost nothing about. It was perfectly on-brand for what was going on in society. Every child who fidgets in class has ADHD, every difficult husband is a narcissist, and every teen who listens to Billy Eilish is depressed.
Then it got even worse, and this, I believe, is the real problem. Decades ago, mental health professionals created the DSM, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual. The DSM is the mental health ‘bible’ that gives a diagnostic criterion to help a clinician decide what their patient is experiencing. The objective of a diagnosis is not to label the individual but to help guide them to a treatment plan. But instead, we decided that a diagnosis is a label and a sentence. She’s an addict? Run for the hills. He’s a narcissist? There is nothing to do about it. This child is anxious? Let them skip school for the rest of their lives. We forgot that the purpose of a diagnosis was to guide them to living full and meaningful lives. We entered this new era of mental health awareness, and it was great, but ladies and gentlemen, we quickly lost the plot.
When I was looking into getting a degree in counseling, I remember hearing some rabbis say that the field of psychology is inconsistent with our Torah values. What they were referring to was Freud who was obsessed with sexuality. What they didn’t know was that the only time Freud is brought up in a modern classroom is to laugh at him because his theories have been (almost) entirely rejected. But now, I think those rabbis may have been on to something. Psychology, not when its used appropriately, but in its pop form of loose diagnoses and labels that limit, is entirely inconsistent with our Torah values.
Take the first sinner in the Torah – Kayin. He would serve as a great case study of mental illness. If I were a TikTok influencer, I would diagnose him with Intermittent Explosive Disorder – his reaction to jealousy was off was the charts. I would then diagnose him with Depression and Anger Attacks – he was shamed and reacted violently. And of course, I would diagnose him with our favorite diagnosis, Narcissism – he raged uncontrollably when he felt inferior.
Let’s say my diagnoses are correct. Undoubtedly, he was a very troubled man, he killed his brother out of jealousy. But you know what G-d says to this person who our modern society would so quickly write off? Im teitiv se’et – if you choose to do good, you can. Because YOU. CAN. CHANGE. That is the subplot to all of Judaism. We are not born perfect, “b’avon cho’lolti,” but we can change. Yes, Kayin may have all those diagnoses and they’re not going away, you don’t graduate out of a diagnosis. Im teitiv se’et means if you take responsibility, if you work tirelessly with the right tools, you can still live an incredibly good life.
That is the premise of the entire Yosef story. The million-dollar question throughout the entire episode is why does Yosef not let his father know that he is alive? Why doesn’t he just send a letter home letting Yaakov know he’s alive and well? Why does he play this insane charade? Why doesn’t he just say, “Hey guys, it’s me.”
The Ramban suggests that Yosef is intent on fulfilling his dreams and until his family comes to Egypt and bows to him submissively, his prophetic dreams will remain unfulfilled. Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch answers this question in an entirely different fashion. He suggests that Yosef did not want to just reunite with his family. He wanted to have a relationship with his family. The only way to do so would be to demonstrate to them that he had changed and for them to demonstrate to him that they had changed.
Yosef had to show his brothers that although they thought he was a power-hungry narcissist, he was able to still be benevolent and thoughtful. And although he thought they were “diagnosed” with Envy-Driven Aggression with Partial Inhibition (yes, that’s a real diagnosis), they were able to overcome their envy and aggression and put their lives on the line for their brother, Binyamin. Only when they demonstrated their developed behavior was Yosef ready to reunite. Then, and only then, could they have a healthy relationship. It’s a beautiful explanation with a very straightforward subplot – WE. CAN. CHANGE.
Reuven may be impulsive, he is still one of the shevatim. Yosef may be a narcissist, but even a narcissist can learn how to be kind. Yaakov Avinu sure sounds like he’s depressed in this week’s parsha, but he manages to live the best years of his life in Egypt. Yehuda may have a sexual addiction, I don’t know, but he faces his demons and deals with them. To be very clear, I don’t think any of the shevatim or avos are diagnosable. My point is that they had challenges, real significant challenges, that they overcame, and so can we.
It takes immense determination and really hard work to work through mental illness or even shades of mental illness and thrive, but it is more than doable. That is the message of the Torah.
Done right, the field of mental health is not only consistent with the Torah, it is a Divine gift – an entire field dedicated to helping us grow. Having tools to help us understand who we are is critical to personal growth, gaining insight into what we may be experiencing to assess if it is indeed diagnosable is incredibly valuable, and having good therapists available to help us thrive despite our limitations is a blessing. But a diagnosis is not a life sentence. WE. CAN. CHANGE.
Jonathan, I’m sorry. This is a really intense drasha for a Bar Mitzvah Shabbos. But I think this message is actually relevant to you. Hear me out.
You are a very talented young man. You are athletic, artistic, musical, and well-liked by everyone. You are easy-going and respectful and have a very strong moral compass. You are also a text-book model of all the good things that the mental-health generation has going for it. You see, usually when I meet with parents before a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, I ask them, what is your child good at? And often the child hears for the first time as their parents rattle off their talents and qualities. But before Rebecca and Yitzy had a chance to tell me all of Jonathan’s qualities, Jonathan told me all of them by himself. THAT is self-awareness. And that’s awesome.
You inherited many of these traits from your parents and you learned so much from them. But what I want you to pay attention to, something that I admire in your parents, is their ability to change, to grow, to not be held back by life circumstances. The past few years have been challenging for your family. Your parents would be justified if they curled up in a ball. Our society may even celebrate them for doing so. But your parents don’t stop. They have changed, they have overcome, and they have evolved. And that is even more awesome.
You’ve been blessed with so much natural goodness that you’ve been able to coast through life, and that is a real blessing. But there will be a point and likely many points where you will have a choice, do I continue coasting or do I break out of my old shell and recreate myself? I hope you look to your mother and father for inspiration.
I haven’t been to a library in a very long time. I’m not loving the messages that too many books in our society are selling us. But we have this amazing book, it’s called the Torah. It teaches us from the first page to the last and in every Torah book that follows that we are masters of our own destiny, that nothing is set in stone, that no matter how evil we may think someone else is or how evil we think we are, that no matter what diagnosis we may indeed have, it may be true and that’s okay, but with hard work, with genuine determination, WE. CAN. CHANGE.
Jonathan, I hope and pray that you, and all of us, never lose sight of that amazing plot.
by Ner Tamid | Dec 21, 2025 | Sermons
I’ll often hear from Jewish visitors to Baltimore about the strange looking shul at the corner of Fallstaff and Park Heights. The architecture stands out – the light pink Middle Eastern colors, the pointed arches meant to invoke Persian palaces, the shul is obviously a shul for Iranian Jews. The question I’m often asked is, why are Iranian Jews living in Baltimore and how did they get here? But what really puzzles visitors is who this Iranian shul is dedicated to. Across the front façade it reads, The Herman Neuberger Memorial Building. Herman Neuberger is the furthest thing from an Iranian Jew.
Herman Neuberger was born in Wurzburg, Germany. If you were to make a continuum of Jews of all denominations and stripes, you would have German Jews on one end, and Iranian Jews aaaaall the way over here on the other end. Modi likes to make fun of the differences between Ashkenazim and Sefardim, but Yekkes and Iranians, that is next level.
I remember the first Iranian wedding I attended – I came more or less on time. The bride and groom were not there yet. You go to a Yekke wedding on time and you are late.
At a Yekkish wedding everyone’s dancing in perfect rhythm, in a perfectly circular circle, music is calm. At a Persian wedding, it’s like a dance club with rabbis who are belly dancing…
They don’t even eat the same food. A German Jew eats chicken with three pieces of salt, not four. A Persian Jew’s chicken is buried underneath a mountain of rice, buried under turmeric, saffron, sumac, limes, tamarind, cumin.
Try taking seconds at a German Jews house, you get death stares. At an Iranian Jews home if you don’t take triples and take some home for later you have just insulted the host.
You say Good Shabbos to a German Jew, if you look really closely, you’ll notice that he is nodding his head ever so slightly. A Persian Jew? [kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss] SHABBAT SHALOM!!!
So why, ladies and gentlemen, is Ohr Hamirzach, a center for Iranian Jews dedicated to the memory of Rabbi Herman Neurberger, a quintessential German Jew?
One word answer and that is ‘achrayus,’ responsibility.
Whether we take responsibility or not is a key feature of who we are. In my humble opinion, there are two types of people in the world, those who take responsibility and those who do not.
And responsibility is also an exceptionally important value in Judaism. That is the only way to make sense of Yosef’s audacious action after interpreting Pharaoh’s dream. Yosef, a foreign slave, was brought out of jail to interpret Pharoah’s nightmare. Yosef masterfully does so, explaining that the dreams represent the Egyptian economy, bullish for seven years and then a seven-year collapse. But then Yosef goes ahead, pulls out his calculator, and starts to devise an investment plan. He’s pulling out power-points and spreadsheets. What is he doing? What a chutzpah! He was given a task, interpret the dream. Why is he now devising a plan of what needs to be done? That’s not his job?!
The answer is that Yosef was a descendent of Avraham Avinu who was told that Sedom was going to be destroyed. Avraham did not just accept that as a fact even though it came directly from G-d. Instead, he petitioned G-d to save them.
Because as Jews, we believe that we are not passive players in this world. We have achrayus, responsibility to do whatever we can to make the world a better place, whether or not you were asked to do so. So when Yosef, a great-grandson of Avraham, heard that Hashem was telling Pharaoh what He was planning to do, it was unfathomable that this information was shared just to inform Pharaoh. No. Hashem was telling Pharaoh so he could do something about it.
I don’t think we appreciate how radical this idea is. There are other faith groups that do not go to doctors and for good reason. If you believe that G-d is in control and made you ill, then you have no right to fight that. Even many Jews grapple with variations of this idea. They ask, should I not work so hard because I should have faith in G-d that He will provide? Or, as some like to frame it, when does my Hishtadlus end and my Emunah begin?
Now among the classical sources I believe there is only one Jewish source that suggest that we should not exert ourselves fully and instead we should believe in G-d. There are people who apply this to their work ethic and that is fine. However, if that is your philosophical approach you should probably be consistent. I have never heard anyone say, I am not going to go to such a good doctor because I have faith in G-d. Never in my life have I heard a Jew say that. And that’s because the more classical view is that we are expected to on the one hand believe everything comes from Hashem and at the same time believe that we are expected to exert ourselves to the fullest.
That’s why Pharoah is blown away by Yosef. No one in Egypt, in this pagan society would dream of overcoming G-d’s plan. If G-d said there will be hunger, who are we to argue? But Yosef says no, I have achrayus to do something about it.
And this is why Herman Neurberger’s name is on Ohr Hamizrach.
In 1979, the government of Iran was toppled. The Shah fled the country and the Jews were thrown into turmoil. How would they survive under the rule of the antisemitic Ayatollah?
Rabbi Herman Neuberger had forged some connections to Iranian Jews a few years prior. He also had friends in high places in the American government. And so, without anyone asking him to do anything, he made it his business to persuade the state department to accept Iranian Jews as political refugees and he oversaw the immigration of over 1000 Iranian Jews to Baltimore.
Getting the Iranian Jews out of Iran was often a matter of life and death. His children related how, while this was going on, one Seder night, he didn’t join them at the table. He spent the entire night on the phone. He took a quick break before midnight and had a piece of Matzah and then went back to making calls.
He was not related to these people in any way. No one asked him to do this. No one said this is your job. But he saw a problem and understood that he was responsible.
That was what Yosef was doing in Pharaoh’s palace. That’s what the Chashmonaim did when faced with Greek persecution. The Chashmoanim were priests in the Bais Hamikdash. These Jewish children’s books usually depict Yehuda Hamaccabi as a body-builder. He was probably a slightly overweight rabbi with a receding hairline. But he took responsibility. He and his family understood that when you see something, you have to do something. And they did. This past week, a small ray of light coming from the deep darkness of Sydney, Australia, were the heroics of Ahmed el-Ahmad, a Lebanese man who saw the terrorists and could have easily walked away. He didn’t. He ran to the fire. He saved countless lives. He too was a Ba’al Achrayus, a master of responsibility.
***
Did anyone here ask Ayala Pensak to update our bulletin weekly? I didn’t think so.
Did anyone ask Zev Pensak to make our kiddush every single Shabbos?
Did anyone ask Zev to make sure our heating systems are working? That our janitorial staff is on-task?
Did anyone ask the entire Pensak family to cook huge Shabbos meals for the entire shul every few weeks?
Did anyone ask Zev to be on site every day for months to make sure our front lobby came together the way it did?
The answer to all these questions is no. But the Pensak family, learned from their parents, and they are Ba’alei Achrayus. They are people who run into the line of fire, people who do for others, people who respond before anyone asks them to do so.
Shaya, today is your Bar Mitzvah. Aside from being a great brother, a good athlete, an amazing friend, you are curious – at a young age, you came to speak to me about deep theological questions, you are up with the news to know what’s going on in the world. And you are born into this special family of people who take responsibility. I hope and pray you take your many skills and use them as you take responsibility for the world around you.
Now I imagine all of us would like to believe that we should be counted as someone who takes responsibility. I imagine all of us would like to believe that if there was heaven forbid, a terrorist attack, we would be the one to charge the shooter. I imagine all of us would like to believe that if we lived under a tyrannical antisemitic regime, we would take up arms and fight back.
Well, you’re in luck, I created a little test for you to see if you are indeed such a person.
Earlier this morning, I came to shul before anyone was here, went up and down between the rows in this room and dropped tissues. Yes, tissues. Did anyone see them? Did you pick up the tissue you saw?
There are two types of people in the world; those who take responsibility and those who do not.
Yosef, the Chashmonaim, Bondi Beach, those things thankfully don’t happen very often. A ba’al achrayus is always looking around to see what they could do. Is there someone around me who could use a hand? A smile? A hello? Are there a group of people who I could support in some way? A ba’al achrayus does not wait to be asked; he or she steps in on their own.
And so the real litmus test of whether or not we are a person who takes responsibility is when we see something, something small, that is out of place, and instead of just walking by, we stop, we bend down, we pick it up. Next time you do so, please know, that you are walking in the footsteps of our great ones, and that you are a real ba’al achrayus.
by Ner Tamid | Dec 14, 2025 | Sermons
There is not a single element of Chanukah that is not confusing or hotly debated. For example, probably the most famous Talmudic debate of all times is, of course, the one between Shammai and Hillel – one candle on night one, two candles on night two, etc. or, eight on day one, seven on day two, etc. Going up or going down. This tradition of Chanukah debates continues through modern disputes such as, which one is better, latkas or donuts. I was watching a video the other day of such a debate (yes, this is a thing), and the donut defender stated that latkas are for old fashioned people and donuts are for modern Jews. The assumption being that latkas come from Eastern Europe where some of our grandparents ate variations of potatoes for breakfast, lunch, and supper, and donuts come from… Dunkin Donuts.
Now I am a little biased – I happen to be in the latka camp; savory, crispy, potatoes outweigh super sweet dough any day, but biases aside, the guy was totally wrong. The real donut story goes back to at least the 12th century. The Rambam’s father defends the custom of eating sweet fried dough on Chanukah and says it is an ancient custom not be belittled. Jelly donuts in puffy dough goes back to the 15th century. In the very first cookbook to ever be published in the printing press, there is a recipe for what is described as gefullte krapfun, which is apparently German for jelly donut.
Years later, the controversy continues here in Baltimore with an even more hotly debated question – sufganiyot made by Rosendorffs or Parisers?
…
It gets more complicated – If I were to ask you why we eat fried food you would all tell me because of the oil that was found in the Bais HaMikdash by the Maccabees. But even that is not necessarily the case. There is a theory, and brace yourselves, that the reason we eat food fried in oil on Chanukah is to remind us of the tragic and beautiful story of Chana and her seven sons. In Maccabees 2, a book written in 150 BCE, we are told of a woman and her seven sons who are brought before the Greek ruler who demands that they serve an idol. One by one the children refuse, affirming their faith in Hashem, and are subsequently killed by the Greeks. The seventh son, the youngest one, is killed in the most horrific fashion – he is placed in a tremendous pot filled with… burning oil. Dr. Malka Simkovich, a brilliant historian, wonderful human being, and friend, suggests that this story is the reason we eat sufganiyot or latkas on Chanukah. I know, I just killed your appetite.
Here’s another example of confusion – Were the branches of the Menorah rounded or straight? Most of us assume they were round. However, the Lubavitcher Rebbe made a very big deal about the branches being straight; Chabad chassidim take his view very very seriously and will defend this view at all costs. …
All jokes aside, the real genuine controversy of Chanukah, and an important one, is mai Chanukah. That is the question asked by the Talmud in Meseches Shabbos – Mai chanukah? What is chanukah? And the Gemara then shares the classic story that we all know, of Greeks who attempted to stifle religious behavior, of the Maccabees mobilizing the people to rebel against the Greeks, ultimately defeating them, establishing the Hasmonean monarchy, coming back to a desecrated Bais Hamikdash where they find one jug of pure oil that burns for eight days.
But being that it’s Chanukah, it’s much more complicated than that.
Yes, the Maccabees defeated the Greeks in 164 BCE, regained control of the Bais Hamikdash, and created a holiday shortly thereafter. But what that holiday is meant to represent is a mess of contradictory ideas. The following historical overview is also based on the scholarship of Dr. Simkovich. In 143 BCE, a letter was sent to the Jews of Egypt encouraging them to celebrate the holiday of Tabernacles in Kislev. Tabernacles is another word for Sukkos. It seems, that Sukkos could not be celebrated that year due to the Greeks control of the Bais Hamikdash and so every year after, the celebration was about the holiday of Sukkos being made up (eight days, full Hallel, and more). A few years later, another letter is sent to the community in Egypt, this time the holiday of Kislev is described as the Holiday of Purification. This is a little closer to our Chanukah story as it reflects the fact that the Temple was impure and the Jews made it pure. However, 20 years later, yet another letter is sent, this time the holiday of Kislev has nothing to do with the Greeks and Chashmonaim and is described as a holiday commemorating a miracle that took place in the times of Nechemia, some three hundred years prior to the Chanukah story! About 150 years after that, we find Josephus mentioning this holiday which he describes as the holiday of lights but… he doesn’t know why it’s called the holiday of lights!!! The first mention of the miracle of the oil does not appear until the Talmud is written a few hundred years later.
Now, this does not mean the miracle of the oil did not take place. If anything, Josephus supports the fact that there was a miracle involving lights. What it does mean is that many Jews celebrated Chanukah for an entirely different reason than we do.
One of the most notable differences is how the Talmud deemphasizes the military victory and the earlier generations of Chanukah celebrants most certainly focused almost entirely on the military victory of the Hasmoneans. And of course, the question is why? Why did the rabbis deemphasize the military battle and focus instead on the miracle of the lights?
There are many theories – of course. Some suggest the Jews, living under foreign rule, did not want to get in trouble by talking about Jewish military campaigns, some suggest it had to do with Christians who adopted the Chashmonaim as their own heroes and the rabbis wanting to distance themselves from the Christians. But probably the most straightforward explanation is – the Hasmonean dynasty was an epic failure.
Not only did they not maintain the spiritual stature of the first generation of Maccabees, but by the second generation of Hasmonean kings, two brothers were fighting over the throne, and one of them went ahead and invited the Romans to help him. The Romans came along, helped this Hasmonean brother out and then, within a very short amount of time, took over all of Judea, leading directly to the destruction of the Bais Hamikdash and the exile of the Jews.
The rabbis had to tweak the focus of this holiday because the sad and tragic story of the Chasmonai failure is the real Chanukah story.
Now before you accuse me of not only ruining all fried foods for you but also ruining Chanukah, let me tell you why I find the original Chanukah story with its horrific ending to be the most uplifting of all.
All Jewish holidays have a happy ending. Jews were in Egypt, they were freed, let’s celebrate Pesach. Jews were in a scary desert, they were protected, let’s celebrate Sukkos. The Jews were living in an immoral, backward society, they were given the Torah, let’s celebrate Shavuos. The Jews were going to be killed by Haman, they were saved, let’s celebrate Purim.
They are all beautiful stories worthy of celebrating, but almost none of them reflect our day-to-day experiences. Many of our personal life stories do not have happy endings. I was speaking to someone the other day who referenced a very popular podcast by Tzipora Grodko called Stories of Hope. This person contrasted her own life to the life of the guests on Stories of Hope, people with amazingly inspiring stories of overcoming odds and accomplishing great things. The woman I was speaking to did not have a hope-filled story. Now Tzipora Grodko is a gem of a person and it’s a wonderful podcast, so this is not a knock on her, but as I told this woman, I would like to create a podcast in competition with Tzipora’s called Stories of Hopelessness; sharing stories that do not have a happy ending.
I say this somewhat tongue in cheek, but I mean it. Not only because most of our lives are not inspiring. But because there is nothing in our Jewish tradition that suggests that in Olam Hazeh, in this world of exile that we live in, in this pre-messianic era, that our personal stories will have a happy Halmark ending. They don’t. There is nothing wrong with being inspired by stories of hope, but it’s important to remember that we cannot expect our lives to follow this trajectory.
What I personally find incredibly uplifting is our ability, as a people, to recognize this, to say that the Maccabean victory dissolved into a terrible mess, the temple is destroyed, we are exiled all over the world, and yet, we are still able to be connected to our tradition, to Hashem. That we can, in the cold months of the winter, when it’s dark outside, light a little candle, and say that despite all this impurity we are surrounded by, despite all the waves of history trying to extinguish us, we are still holding on. That. Is. Remarkable. And that can inspire me every day of my life, whether I brilliantly succeed or fail miserably; I have a Chanukah story, a tradition that reminds me to hold on.
I imagine many of you have seen the video that was just released; some footage found deep in a tunnel in Gaza of Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Carmel Gat, Eden Yerushalmi, Almog Sarusi, Ori Danino, and Alex Lobanov, celebrating Chanukah. Instead of a real Menorah they have makeshift cups. One of them jokingly asks, where are the donuts? And they joke around how they should have asked their captors to bring them a dreidel. But then one of them asks what Hersh is singing – he is singing Maoz Tzur. Hersh explains that each paragraph of the song describes a different enemy that tried to kill us and was unsuccessful. Eden comments that they should add another verse [to describe the war against Hamas.]
Hersh, Carmel, Eden, Almog, Ori, and Alex never made it out of those tunnels. But tell me their story is not an inspiration. Tell me, this group of strangers who bonded over their common heritage and destiny, to light a flame in the darkest of places, who believed in G-d and in the Jewish People even though they themselves would never see the light of day, tell me that is not the most uplifting, on-brand Chanukah story of all.
Mai Chanukah? What is Chanukah really? It is a story of winning the battle and losing the war, it’s a story of exile, it’s a story filled with confusion, and that is it’s greatness. When we light that Menorah, we can remind ourselves of those hostages who had faith in the darkness, who likely knew their story would not have a happy ending, and were still able to sing a song of faith. That is real life. And that is the real Chanukah story. And I find that incredibly inspiring.
Good Shabbos and Happy Chanukah.
