by Ner Tamid | Oct 3, 2025 | Sermons
His was the ultimate redemption story. The destitute shepherd who became the wealthy leader, the man who said of himself that he would venomously bite a Torah scholar if he saw one who became the greatest Torah scholar to have ever lived, the loner who is the central character in the Talmud’s greatest love story.
I am referring, of course, to Rabbi Akiva.
Rabbi Akiva lived during one of the most tumultuous times in Jewish history. Born in the year 50 of the Common Era, he saw the destruction of the Second Temple, was an influential figure in the failed Bar Kochba revolt and as we will read later this morning, he died a martyr at the hands of the Romans. Despite the chaos he was surrounded by, he managed to elevate Torah scholarship to such a degree that the Talmud (Menachos 29a) compares him to Moshe.
He is also responsible for the most well-known and widely practiced Jewish custom, the recital of Kaddish. The earliest source that connect Rabbi Akiva to the custom of a mourner saying Kaddish is found in the Machzor Vitri, an 11th century prayerbook, that shares the following story:
One day, Rabbi Akiva was walking through a cemetery when he encountered a terrifying-looking man. Unclothed, filthy, and most notably, wearing a crown of thorns. The man was running at full speed, chopping wood and loading the wood on his back. Rabbi Akiva caught up to him. Who are you? And who is your master? “I will free you!” declared Rabbi Akiva. Undoubtedly, reminded of his own humble beginnings, Rabbi Akiva always had a soft spot for the poor.
The man tried to brush Rabbi Akiva off. But Rabbi Akiva was persistent. “Who are you? I want to help you!”
אמר לו אותו האיש, ‘that man’ replied: “I am actually not alive. I died years ago. But every day, I am sent to chop wood. I have no rest, not in heaven and not in hell. I am damned to this eternal existence.”
Rabbi Akiva was not one to give up easily. “Why? What’s your story? What’s your name? I am going to see what I can do for you.”
The man informs Rabbi Akiva that his name is also Akiva. He was a tax collector who favored the rich and persecuted the poor. “I lived such an evil life that there is nothing that could be done for me.” And with that, he runs off into the darkness.
Rabbi Akiva travels through the region, stopping in every city, and asking them if they knew of this man. Finally, he arrives at one city, and oh did they know him. They share with Rabbi Akiva story after story of how evil this man was. “Not only that,” they say, “he fathered a child out of wedlock!”
Rabbi Akiva finds the child; he is living on the streets. Nobody wants to have anything to do with him. Rabbi clothes him, educates him, and after months of hard work and practice, the boy stands before the congregation and says Kaddish.
That night, the other Akiva appears to Rabbi Akiva in a dream, to thank him. He is clothed, he is clean, and his face is shining. This, concludes the Machzor Vitri, is why children say Kaddish for their parents.
There are two oddities of the text that are worth highlighting. I know, you’re tired and hungry, but let’s do a little Talmudic analysis.
“Oso ha’ish, that man,” is a way of saying, a man whose name we will not mention. He is “wearing a crown of thorns.”
Whose name do many Jews not mention? Who is depicted as wearing a crown of thorns?
Yes, the man in this story is a not-so-subtle allusion to Jesus. You have to appreciate, Machzor Vitri was written in France in the immediate aftermath of the Crusades. This was not a time of peaceful coexistence between Jews and Christians. And yet, the author, a prime student of Rashi, sends us a full-throated reminder, Yisrael af al pi shechata, Yisrael hu! That a Jew is a Jew is a Jew. No matter what we do, no matter how far we fall, there is always a chance for redemption. Even a man who started another religion, whose practitioners were massacring Jews as this book was being written, nonetheless, every Jew can turn his or her life around.
But the second oddity is even more shocking than the first. When this man finally gives his name, it is – Akiva. The man is chopping wood. Before becoming a shepherd, Avot D’Rav Nosson informs us that Rabbi Akiva’s profession was that of a woodchopper.
You see, Rabbi Akiva was not looking at a ghost. Rabbi Akiva was looking in the mirror. He was looking at an alternative to his own life. He saw this ‘Other Akiva,’ he saw the life of spiritual ignorance, of ethical failures, and he said, “That could have been me.”
***
Long before he was governor, Wes Moore wrote a book called, The Other Wes Moore.
Love him or hate him, our governor, Wes Moore, has a very inspiring life story. A troubled youth but thanks to the influence of a number of incredible role models, he turned his life around.
By the time he was 21, in the year 2000, he was a Rhodes Scholar traveling in South Africa. One day his mother shared with him a newspaper clipping from the Baltimore Sun. There was a young man, the same age, who grew up just a few blocks away, and was being charged with manslaughter for killing a police office after a botched burglary in downtown Baltimore. The other man’s name was Wes Moore.
Governor Moore remembers thinking to himself: “The other Wes Moore is a drug dealer, a robber, a murderer. I am a Rhodes scholar, a White House Fellow, a former Army officer.”
And yet, “Our situations could easily have been reversed.”
All of us have numerous paths before us. Rabbi Akiva, Wes Moore, all of us have an Other. Had I not gone to that school, had I not met this person, had I not made that choice, my life would be radically different than it is. Do you ever wonder about the infinite possible paths your life could have taken?
The mistake we make is that we think that our path-choosing is done. That by the time Wes Moore wrote that book, at the age of 30, his life trajectory was already set in motion. Rabbi Akiva, the ever-growing, the ever-evolving, the ever-optimistic Rabbi Akiva rejects this. He was at least 80 years old when that story took place. He saw the Other Akiva and he said, “This could be me. I don’t want this life. I could do better!” And he did.
It was at around this time that he grappled with the fall-out of the failed Bar Kochba revolt, it was at around this time that thousands of his students died, his life work seemed finished. But Rabbi Akiva was undeterred. At every juncture, he saw two paths before him, and each time, Rabbi Akiva reinvented himself. “I don’t want this life. I could do better!” And he did. (See Yevamos 62b)
This, suggests Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch, is the meaning behind the Yom Kippur service in the temple. There were two identical goats that were part of the service. One was brought as an offering; its blood sprinkled in the Holy of Holies. The other was thrown off a cliff, la’azazel. Says Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch, every year on Yom Kippur we are reminded of the two, and really, not just two, but the endless paths before us. Which path will we choose?
***
One of the greatest techniques for helping us see the different paths open before us is by thinking about our parents. We have their genes, and thanks to nature and nurture, we can see ourselves in them. Some of us had magnificent loving parents, some had horrific abusive parents, and many had parents somewhere in between. All of us have traits that are a direct result of our mother and father.
The goal of life is not to simply perpetuate our parents’ legacy; it is to take it further, higher, grander. The term for child in Hebrew is ben from the word binyan; we are meant to build on their successes and failures. They remind us of who we could be, and that knowledge is meant to motivate us to be better. Because there are so many possible versions of ourself that are just waiting to be realized.
It is not a coincidence that when Rabbi Akiva came face to face with the Other Akiva, he instituted Kaddish. Kaddish, the prayer we say for our parents, the prayer that focuses not on the past but on a radical version of peace in the future, is meant to remind us of our possible future, the other you waiting to be realized.
***
Menachem Begin, former Prime Minister of Israel, once shared the following story: “I’ve been to jail three times,” he said. “The first time the communists arrested me in Vilna. The Soviets locked me up in one of their prisons. I was held there for six weeks and all I could think about was getting back home. The second prison was a forced labor camp in Siberia. By my sixth week in Siberia, I dreamt of being back in that first prison cell. The third time, the Soviets put me in solitary confinement, and I dreamt of being back in that Siberian labor camp.”
“The Jewish People as a nation have been through so many years of suffering, humiliation, and abuse. When they think of peace, they’re content when people aren’t shooting at them. When they think of freedom, they’re content by not being slaves. My job,” he concluded, “as prime minister of Israel is to make sure that Jewish children never dream of labor camps or of prisons, but that they dream the dreams of a free people.”
How many of us are simply content with survival, with living another year? How many of us are okay with keeping the status quo of our current relationships, with loved ones, with G-d?
Like the Jewish People as a whole, we’ve been conditioned through so many failures, that we’re content with so little.
And what a pity that is.
Because there is another version of you waiting to be realized. The ‘other you’ who overcomes the anger, the laziness, the jealousy, the judgmentalism, once and for all. Who says, just because I lived with these negative traits for decades, doesn’t mean I cannot overcome them.
There is another version of you who reconciles with his or her brother, sister, spouse, child, old friend. There is another version of you who is not content with an okay relationship with a loved one; but wants to live with passion and forgiveness and safety and works tirelessly until you get there.
There is another version of you who deepens their knowledge of their tradition. A version of you not content with an elementary understanding of this faith that our ancestors lived and died for. But who wants to speak to G-d as an intimate lover and to feel His presence through the good times and in the valley of death.
Let’s take advantage of these next few moments when many of us think about our parents and ask ourselves how we can take their legacy further. Let’s take advantage of these next few hours, as we read of the two goats, as we recall the story of Rabbi Akiva, and ask ourselves who we can be.
There is another version of you just waiting to be realized.
(h/t to Rabbi Jon Gross esq. for the brilliant Wes Moore-Rav Hirsch connection and to Rabbi Joe Wolfson for the majestic read of the Machzor Vitri)
by Ner Tamid | Oct 3, 2025 | Sermons
Alfred Dehodencq was one of the most accomplished artists of the 19th century. Born in France, he chose to live in Morrocco for over a decade, where his most famous paintings were produced. Many of his painting depict typical Jewish scenes, but one stands out, known as, The Execution of a Jewess in Morocco.
Made in 1861, it is a powerful picture with a Jewish girl at the center being forced to kneel on a large platform. There is a large Arab standing over her with a knife to her neck. In the crowd there are two groups; one jeering and excited to see this execution. The other group somber and scared. In the foreground, there is a rabbi, depicting the leader of the community, deep in prayer, hunched over and broken.
The Jewess in the painting is Solica Hachuel.
I shared her story with some of you on Tisha B’av, but her story and specifically this painting has been haunting me ever since. There are differing versions as to what exactly took place; what I will be sharing with you is from Eugenio Maria Romero, a Spaniard who visited Morrocco shortly after this affair.
Solica was a 17-year-old Jewish girl who lived in Tangier, Morrocco. She was exceptionally beautiful and strong-willed; two factors that would play an important role in her life. She was friends with a Muslim neighbor, which was common at the time. At one point, her Muslim neighbor tried to get Solica to convert to Islam. Solica was not interested. However, it seems like her neighbor was as strong-willed as Solica and kept encouraging her to accept Muhammad as the true prophet. Solica repeatedly declined.
Exasperated, the neighbor turned to the local authorities and claimed that Solica had secretly converted to Islam. Her intention was possibly to get the authorities to force Solica to start practicing as a Muslim. However, the punishment for practicing Judaism after converting to Islam was death. Solica was brought before the local governor who accepted the Muslim girl’s testimony and then turned to Solica informing her that unless she accepted to live her life as a Muslim she would die.
After being threatened by death, Solica, the 17-year-old girl, replied to the governor: “I will patiently bear the weight of your chains; I will give my limbs to be torn by wild beasts. I will renounce forever the light of the day; I will perish of hunger. And when all the evils of life are accumulated on me by your orders, I will smile at your indignation, and the anger of your prophet since neither he nor you are able to overcome a weak female!”
The Jewish community mobilized and attempted to use whatever connections they had to free Solica. The most high-ranking individual they could reach was the Spanish Vice-Consul, who made a feeble attempt, but was unsuccessful.
Eventually, thanks to the public outcry, the case made its way to the Sultan. Allegedly, the sultan’s son was so taken by Solica’s beauty that he offered to marry her and make her a princess, if only she would convert. She refused. “A Jewess I was born, and a Jewess I will die,” is what she said.
One of the many people who came to visit her while she was waiting for her execution was one of the community’s leading rabbis. He explained to her that technically she could just pretend to accept Muhammad. He pleaded with her to do so, explaining how it would be extremely helpful for the Jewish community’s safety if she converts.
She refused.
On June 5th, 1834, Solica was dragged to the marketplace, where she was executed publicly with the words of Shema Yisrael proudly on her lips. If you visit Fez, you can join the many people who visit her grave.
Solica’s execution is most obviously a tragic tale. But the real tragedy is not her execution. The real tragedy is the community’s impotence; their inability to do anything about those false charges. The most heartbreaking tragedy of all is the rabbi, the rabbi depicted in that famous painting, who pathetically begged this heroine to renounce her faith.
I’m being a little harsh, I know. Who could blame him? The Jews, in the 19th century were powerless and completely dependent on the goodwill of their rulers. Of course, the rabbi had to meekly beg her to hide her true faith. Who can blame the community for not doing more? The Jews, in the 19th century, did not have political power.
But imagine for a moment that this story happened today. Do you know what kind of political pressure there would be on Morocco? How many presidents and prime ministers would weigh in and force the Moroccan government to let her go?
And if Morocco would refuse to listen, can you imagine the field day Mossad agents would have? Do you how many Moroccan beepers would blow up? How many nuclear scientists would mysteriously die?
And if they still refused, I could see Netanyahu sending fighter jets to blow up the prison and rescue her. I could even imagine Yair Lapid congratulating him for doing so.
And that pathetic, meek, rabbi, pleading with Solica to denounce her own faith, can you even imagine such a thing happening today?! Not. A. Chance.
There is a lot of handwringing in our community these days. Yes, antisemitic incidents are on the rise, yes, Israel is more isolated than she’s been in decades, yes, what is going on in Gaza is an absolute nightmare. But in over 2000 years, it has never been this good to be a Jew.
Since the creation of the State of Israel, have the enemies of the Jewish state been more afraid than they are today? Scared to use their phones, scared to meet in groups, scared to breathe.
There is a lot that is imperfect and terrible. We will not rest until the hostages come home, until the soldiers go back to their families, and until there is peace in Israel, but don’t tell me this has not been one of the most momentous years in recent Jewish history. Annihilation of Hezbollah in Hollywood fashion, near-decimation of Hamas, attacking the nuclear facilities of Iran and bringing the country to its knees?
If there is one thing history books will be saying about this year, it is that in 5785, the world learned that Jewish blood is not cheap.
Too bad Solica did not live in 2025, because if she did, she would still be alive. She would be walking the streets of Jerusalem with her head held high.
There are two ways to enter into Yom Kippur. We could be burdened by our inadequacies and how far we are from where we need to be, as individuals and as a people. We could look like that hunched over rabbi in that picture, weighed down by guilt and by shame. Or we could walk into Yom Kippur filled with gratitude; reflecting on a year in which G-d conveyed to us how after 2000 years of exile, He is watching over us and He cares.
Atoning for our sins is critical, but atonement is the trees of Yom Kippur. The forest – is how G-d is giving us an opportunity to reignite our relationship with Him. You know why He does this for us? You know why He gives us an opportunity to apologize to Him, to reconcile, to reconnect? Because Jewish blood is not cheap. Because we are precious to Him. And He wants us to know that.
We just said the blessing of She’hechiyanu, thanking G-d for bringing us to this day. On the Yom Kippur of 1834, in Tangier, Morrocco, Solica’s parents said this blessing with a stream of tears falling from their eyes. Despite all they went through, despite the pain and shame, they clung to their faith with bowed heads.
If Solica Hachuel lived today, she’d be screaming Shehechiyanu from the rooftops. And so should we.
Thank you, Hashem, for this past year, with all its hardships and all the unfinished business.
Thank you, Hashem, for eliminating so many of our neighboring enemies; Hezbollah, the Syrians, and most of Hamas.
Thank you, Hashem, for releasing our fear of the Iranians; we had been so scared of them for so long, and you have showed us their weakness.
Thank you, Hashem, for allowing the IDF and its security forces to be so successful, and showing the world that Jewish blood is not cheap
Thank you, Hashem, for reminding us that we matter, for allowing us to live in these glorious times. We are looking forward to spending these next 24 hours expressing our gratitude and rekindling our relationship. She’hechiyanu v’kiy’manu v’higiyanu lazman hazeh.
by Ner Tamid | Oct 1, 2025 | Sermons
A rabbi and his disciple were once walking together deep in discussion. They arrived at the bank of a river and saw a young woman in tears. “Why are you crying?” asked the rabbi. She told him that she was deathly afraid of water, but she really needed to get to the other side of the river. “No problem,” said the rabbi. He suggested that she climb on his back, which she did. And he carried her across the river.
The student followed behind, the entire time, shaking his head. The woman thanked the rabbi profusely, went on her way, and the rabbi and his student continued walking. The student kept shaking his head and muttering under his breath.
After about two miles, the rabbi turned to his student and said, “What’s bothering you?”
Incredulous, the student responded: “Rabbi, we’re not allowed to touch a woman other than our wife! You let this woman on your back. You held onto her!”
“Yes,” said the rabbi. “I did.”
“But I let go of her two miles ago at the crossing. Why are you still carrying her?”
We’re starting the holiest day of the year. Many of us are dressed in white, as we emulate the angels and attempt to fly to the heights of spirituality. But our wings are just not strong enough to bear all that we carry. All of us here have memories, all of us here have strong emotions that we can’t seem to shake. And now, at this sacred moment, it would be a good idea to think about what we are carrying and what’s holding us down.
I’d venture to say that we are weighed down with pain from family. We are so often hurt by those closest to us, the people we’ve depended on, the people who know our most shameful vulnerabilities. We carry the burden of that pain.
I’d venture to say that we are weighed down with indignity. We feel ignored by our spouse, we feel like our opinion does not matter in our own home, we feel, in the place and with the person who is supposed to make us feel most important, we feel most small. We carry the burden of indignity.
We are weighed down by feelings of being ignored. We went through a hard time, and our friends were nowhere to be seen. We called them and texted and emailed, but they never responded. We carry the burden of being invisible.
We are weighed down by ingratitude. We worked tirelessly to support our co-workers, or our bosses and they walk away with all the praise, they get the raises and attention, and they don’t even bother to say thanks. There are children who owe us gratitude; they just take and take and take. They don’t realize how hard we work, what we’ve sacrificed. We love them but it hurts. We carry the burden of being taken for granted.
We are weighed down by a longing for love. All the bids for attention from our parents that went ignored. All the times we were hoping they’d swoop in with a hug or a kiss or a kind word, and instead they left us cold. We carry the burden of feeling unloved.
I used to think that our shoulders sag as we get older because of a loss of muscle. But I don’t believe that anymore. It’s all the pain we’re trying to carry. Each year, each decade, it grows. It’s a lot to carry.
Sometimes, someone comes by and apologizes from the bottom of their heart. They express remorse over what they’ve done, the pain they caused, and they remove some of the burden. But too often we’re left carrying a terribly heavy load.
It’s not only the elderly that are weighed down. Allow me to share with you a story of a young couple who were debilitated by the pain caused by a stranger:
Dovid and Tamar Sheinberg are two Israelis in their lower 20’s. They got engaged in early 2020 and were planning on getting married in the spring. However, at the end of February 2020, the Israeli government started making plans for a lockdown and Dovid and Tamar were concerned that they would not be able to get married. No problem. They were resourceful. They decided to make a wedding in March. The government had already instituted limits on crowd sizes. Dovid and Tamar were very conscientious to do everything legally. They invited their immediate family and their rabbi, rented a small hall, and had a wedding.
Despite the small crowd, despite not having their friends and cousins at their wedding, they went all out. They made sure that the wedding was picture perfect. After all, this was not of their dreams. The servings were elegant, the décor was beautiful, the music was stirring. Everything was going as planned, the young couple were on top of the moon – until the police barged in.
The police were quickly followed by soldiers who started barking orders. “Disperse! Everyone must leave immediately!”
Dovid ran over to the mefaked, the captain, and explained, “Officer, everything is being done legally. We have the right amount of people here. Please! This is our wedding!!”
Not only was he ignored, they started writing tickets to the guests, who all immediately ran off.
And so there they were, Dovid and Tamar and their parents getting fined 5000 shekels each for being in violation of a crime they did not commit, surrounded not by friends, not even by family, but by soldiers with guns, on their wedding night.
When the police left, Dovid, a popular young man, stood outside, pleading with strangers to please join him for five minutes so they could say Sheva Berachos with a minyan.
The couple was crushed. The night of their dreams, which they had planned so meticulously, turned into a nightmare. When the pictures arrived from the photographer, they threw them into a drawer, they were too traumatized to relive that night of horror. They made sure to never drive past their wedding hall. They never spoke of their wedding. It was just too painful. This young couple, who had such beautiful dreams of wonderful marriage kick-started with a magnificent wedding, was now living under a cloud. Weighed down by hurt. Trudging along with pain.
Seven months later, on a Friday afternoon, right before Shabbos, Dovid received a call from his father. His father had a received a message from a young man he did not know. The young man admitted to being the one who called the police. He wanted to speak to Dovid and Tamar. He wanted to apologize. Would Dovid and Tamar take a call from this young man?
It was Friday, a few minutes before Shabbos, Dovid told his father that he and Tamar would discuss it. And they did. It was the worst Shabbos of their life. They relived every moment of that horrible nightmare. They went back and forth. Jewish Law does not demand that we forgive. We are not obligated to forgive if we cannot. The pain, the hurt, the impact was undoable. They considered saying no. But towards the end of Shabbos as they sang the Zemiros of Shalosh Seudos, “Yedid Nefesh Av Harachaman, The soul’s beloved – G-d – the compassionate Father,” they resolved they would indeed speak to this man.
Right after Shabbos, they let their father know and a few minutes later the man called. He couldn’t speak. He choked on his tears, but eventually he got out an apology. He explained to them that on the night of the wedding, he heard music, he realized there was a wedding taking place, he assumed these people were breaking the law and was petrified of Covid, so he called the police. He realized now that he made a terrible terrible mistake. He realized how much pain he had caused them. He begged them to forgive him.
By the time he was done, they were all crying. Dovid and Tamar looked at each other, shook their heads and told him: “We were hurt, we are still hurt, but we realize you made a mistake, and we forgive you. With a complete heart, we forgive you.”
The next day was Yom Kippur. Dovid and Tamar went into the holy day feeling lighter than they’d ever felt before. If they can find it in their hearts to forgive, then maybe just maybe G-d can forgive them for all the mistakes they have made in their lives. The burden they were carrying for all those months was no longer. Yes, their wedding was ruined. Yes, the first months of their marriage was shrouded in darkness. But they forgave. They removed the burden of pain from their backs, and they felt it.
Two days later, Dovid received a frantic call from his sister-in-law. Tamar, his wife, was in a terrible accident. She had been the front car in a four car pile-up and was rushed to the hospital. Dovid immediately made his way to the hospital, to his wife’s room, burst in, only to see his wife sitting up in the hospital bed. She was fine. Shaken but okay.
The doctor walked into the room and said, “You must have angels looking out for you. Based on the impact from the other cars, your airbag should have been deployed, but for some unknown reason it malfunctioned. Had it deployed, the baby in your stomach” – Tamar was six months pregnant – “the baby in your stomach would not have made it.” (as told to Yoel Gold)
Now I don’t like miracle stories; do good and good will happen to you. It’s not how we believe the world works. So, I cannot guarantee that if you forgive someone then angels will protect you. What I can guarantee is that if you forgive someone, if you truly remove the pain that you’ve been carrying, you will feel more like an angel. You will feel as light and as free as a malach.
It would be nice if all those who pained us, if all those who burdened us, if all those who weighed us down, would call us, begging us to forgive. But we do not only forgive for others; we also forgive for ourselves.
Or sages teach us that if we want G-d to forgive us, then we should forgive others. How does that work? Is it magic? We’re nice so G-d is nice to us? It sounds juvenile.
But it’s not. When we forgive someone else, we are not only absolving them of their guilt, of their crime. We are also lightening the burden on our back. We are also allowing our shoulders to straighten. We are also enabling our wings to fly.
We just said Kol Nidrei. We released all the vows that we made over the course of the year. Did you make any vows this year? I didn’t make any vows this year. I am not holding to any vows that I needed to absolve. I don’t think any of us are. But are you holding on to shame?
Are you holding on to indignity?
Are you feeling burdened by being ignored? By not being thanked? By not being loved? By being hurt?
Let me introduce you to a different prayer that many people say as Yom Kippur begins. It’s called Tefilas Zakah. In this prayer, there is one paragraph in which we forgive all those who wronged us. This is a prayer that is relevant to us all.
I invite you to join me in saying this passage together. You are not obligated to forgive. But if you can, if you are able, forgiving, even though we have not been asked to forgive will help us let go, will help relieve the burden on our backs, and the weight on our wings.
Please open your machzor to page 41 and recite the paragraph along with me:
But since I know that there is hardly a righteous person in the world who never sins between man and his neighbor, either monetarily or physically, in deed or in speech, therefore my heart aches within me, because for a sin between man and his neighbor, Yom Kippur does not atone util one appeases his neighbor. For this I am inwardly broken and my bones shudder, because even the day of death does not atone. Therefore, I cast my supplication before You that You have mercy on me and allow me to find favor, kindness, and mercy in Your eyes and in the eyes of all people. Behold! I extend complete forgiveness to everyone who has sinned against me, whether physically or monetarily, or who has gossiped about me or even slandered me. So, too, to anyone who has injured me, whether physically or financially, and for any human sins between man and his neighbor – except for money that I wish to claim and that I can recover by law, and except for someone who sins against me and says, ‘I will sin against him and he will forgive me’ – except for these I grant complete forgiveness; and may no person be punished on my account. And just as I forgive everyone, so may You grant me favor in every person’s eyes, so that he or she will grant me complete forgiveness.
by Ner Tamid | Sep 28, 2025 | Sermons
L’vado, alone, is a term that has both positive and negative connotations.
Lo tov heyos ha’adam l’vado, it is not good for man to be alone. And yet, vayivaser Yaakov l’vado, Yaakov’s aloneness leads to his most spiritual encounter. Is it good to be alone or not?
We are described by Bilaam as a nation alone, am l’vadad yishkon, in what was an attempted curse. But ultimately his curse gets expressed as a blessing. The distinctiveness of the Jewish People, is that a blessing or a curse?
The only l’vad that is clearly positive is a description of G-d being alone, ein od milvado. And yet, it is precisely that aloneness, that distance from us, that makes our relationship with Him so difficult. We want to see Him, we want to understand Him, and yet, He seems so far away, so difficult to comprehend His ways.
My goal this evening is to address three different aloneness’s that we experience; a nation alone, personal loneliness, and loneliness as it relates to our distance from G-d. I hope to provide some perspective on these topics and also a practical exercise for each one. They are not difficult exercises; they are small tweaks to our life. If you are looking for some mind-blowing new behavior this is not the place you will find it. The mesorah I have from my rebbeim is that the only way to bring about effective change, is to make the smallest of behavioral modifications. This past year, I decided last Rosh Hashana to make a change; it was so small and seemingly insignificant but also transformative. And no, I won’t be sharing it with you.
For those of you with a short attention span, my entire talk today can be summed up in one sentence: The key factor as to whether being alone is a blessing or a curse revolves around the difference between being alone and being lonely.
Rav Soloveitchik, in his classic book, The Lonely Man of Faith suggests that to be alone means to be divorced from other humans and that is tragic and that is painful; we are social beings, we need to be connected to others. To be lonely means to recognize that we are utterly unique. To be lonely means to accept that there is a part of us that may never be fully understood by anyone and to appreciate how precious that is. While aloneness saps us of our energy, loneliness, getting in touch with our uniqueness, is actually invigorating.
Aloneness and loneliness.
Let’s talk about how this plays out as a nation.
Allow me to read you a letter that someone in our shul, Dr. Gary Bauman, received a few weeks ago:
“Dear Dr. Bauman,
This isn’t an easy email to write, but my wife … and I won’t be coming to your practice in the future. We’re sorry about this because we appreciate the excellent care we have received from you over many years. But we feel intruded upon by your sign “We stand with Israel,” because, to put it simply, the two of us don’t.
However understandable Israel’s initial response to Hamas’s horrible actions of October 7, 2023 may have been, the continued slaughter of tens of thousands of Gazan civilians, with no end in sight, seems to us indefensible, a violation of the norms of civilized conflict. Obviously, we and you have different views of this—and of course you have every right to your own beliefs– but your sign, in particular, leaves us no choice but to withdraw from your practice.
Sincere regards.”
Shockingly, or maybe not so shockingly anymore, the writers of this email are Jewish. They, like so many other Jews, feel embarrassed of the Jewish State.
I feel angry at them, I feel disappointed with them, and I also feel empathy towards them – I understand, or I think I understand where they are coming from. It is a scary time to be a Jew; it is a scary time to be a supporter of Israel. Since the creation of the State of Israel, I don’t believe there has been a time when Israel has been so marginalized – look at the circus playing out at the UN right now. I don’t believe there has been a time in which Israel’s politicians and even former IDF soldiers are afraid to travel abroad because they might get arrested, a time in which so many countries that have been long-standing allies of Israel are turning their backs on her, a time in which not only the usual suspects like the New York Times but even the Wall Street Journal is hyper-critical of Israel, a time in which college students may be safe today, but that is only because of sanctions that can be repealed at any time, and not because of a change of hearts. I have been traveling back and forth to New York almost weekly for the past few years, and maybe it’s in my head, but I feel like the stares at my kippah and tzitzis are getting worse. It has never been so lonely being a Jew. It has never been so lonely being a supporter of the Jewish State.
I imagine these people who wrote that email, are at least subconsciously afraid of being alone. There is a deep-rooted need to feel connected to others. We are hardwired as humans to thrive when we feel connected and to shrivel when we are isolated.
Now there is another group of Jews on the opposite extreme; these Jews are hyper-focused on the Jewish People’s survival and so they isolate themselves as best as possible. Often times, this isolation from others bleeds into denigration of others, such as mocking non-Jews. Even more extreme, there is a small, and I repeat, very small group of Jews, we’ll call them hyper-nationalists, who are so focused on the Jewish People that they believe that non-Jewish blood, and specifically, Arab blood is worthless.
As distant as these two groups are from one another, they have something in common. Both the self-loathing Jew and the hyper-nationalist Jew believe that to be a Jew means to be alone – separate from the nations of the world. The self-loathing Jew attempts to escape Jewish fate, which as we know, never works. If the Nazis were to come tomorrow, those email writers, Hannah Einbeinder, and everyone else like them would be in the same line as me and you. The Meshech Chochmah famously suggests that the reason calamities befall the Jewish People is to make them realize that they cannot escape Jewish fate. But some people never seem to learn this lesson.
On the other hand, the misguided hyper-nationalist Jew dreams of a world without non-Jews, and that too is wrong. Ironically, these people, many of whom live in Israel, are living with a galus mentality. Their mindset is born out of 2000 years of exile, of trying to survive while the nations of the world were trying to devour us, physically and spiritually.
We are past that stage. The Jewish dream which we are clearly so close to seeing fulfilled is one in which all nations of the world have a place. Ki beisi beis tefillah yikoreh l’chol ha’amim. “My house,” says G-d, “will be called a house of prayer for all the nations.”
Rav Kook, in one of his most famous pieces, describes different levels of greatness. There is the nationalist, the individual who is not only focused on themselves, but they are focused on the Jewish People, and that is great and that is beautiful. But at an even higher level is the following individual:
“There is a person whose soul is so broad that it expands beyond the border of [Am] Yisrael. It sings the song of humanity. This soul constantly grows broader with the exalted totality of humanity and its glorious image. This person yearns for humanity’s general enlightenment. and looks forward to its perfection.”
We are not meant to be alone – separate from the nations of the world. We are meant to be lonely – unique among the nations of the world.
After October 7th, some Jews tried as best as they could to escape the aloneness by blending in. Other Jews saw the massacre as a call to arms – the world is against us. Then there were others who said they will not be alone, but they will be lonely; they decided to embrace their Judaism, even though in doing so it made them different.
My favorite example of this phenomenon is the famous actor, Michael Rappaport. Rappaport is not your typical role model. He cannot finish a sentence without dropping at least two to three words that have to be censored. He is not an observant individual. But after October 7th, he went on the Jewish offensive. Not only did he defend the State of Israel, he started wearing a Talis and Tefilin every day. Despite his newfound love for Israel and Judaism causing him to get less roles in films, he has not stopped, he’s only doubled down. In his own words, and these are some of the few quotes that you will ever hear from him that do not involve four-letter words, he said as follows:
“My Judaism has changed 100%. I am more in tune with it. I’m more proud, I’m more aware, I’m more educated. I’m more proactive in every single way possible and I’m really glad about that. I believe in G-d in a different way. I believe in Hashem in a different way. I celebrate and understand him in a different way.”
“I think we have nothing but faith. You have to have faith. That’s been one of the good things that has come from this last year for me personally.”
Again, Michael Rapaport is far from a shining role model, but at least in this respect, he understood, when we are singled out by our enemies, we don’t run, we don’t hide, we don’t hate. We embrace our difference; we accept that to be a Jew is to be lonely.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, building upon a theme the Ramchal writes of in Derech Hashem, explains that G-d separated us as a nation, gave us unique laws for many reasons, but one of them is to teach the world, what he famously described as, “the dignity of difference.”
When we think of Judaism as being a light onto the nations, the greatest gift we can give the world is the reminder that we are not all the same. In his eloquent words: “The test of faith is whether I can make space for difference. Can I recognize G-d’s image in someone who is not in my image, whose language, faith, ideals, are different from mine? If I cannot, then I have made G-d in my image instead of allowing him to remake me in his.”
This is why, Rabbi Sacks argues, G-d made us different from other nations, to remind them of the dignity of difference, and in doing so the dignity of every human being.
Aloneness is a curse; it is likely what Bilaam had in mind when he described the Jewish People as a “nation apart.” We are not meant to be alone. We are meant to be different, we are meant to be lonely, we are meant to be proud of who we are, G-d’s blessed people, and we are meant to be driven by a mission to share that blessing with the nations around us, who as Rav Kook taught us, we must strive to care about.
So what does this look like practically? In what practical way can we balance our Jewish pride, our need to be distinct, without losing sight of the nations around us, without losing sight of the ultimate goal of all nations coming together in harmony?
Here’s my solution. It’s small. It’s simple. But I think it captures it. Three words. “G-d bless you.”
That’s right. All of us interact with non-Jews all the time. At work, at the store, our friends. When we say goodbye, when we say thank you, can we take stock of who we are? We are G-d’s People. Can we be proud of who we are? We are G-d’s blessed nation. And can we remember to share that blessing with the nations of the world?
G-d bless you.
Every time we say that phrase to a non-Jew, as a sign-off, as a salute, as a thank-you, we are affirming our Jewish pride, our Messianic destiny, and our love for the nations of the world. “G-d bless you” – exercise #1 in embracing our loneliness.
***
But now let’s zoom in, a little closer to home, to a form of aloneness that plagues us as individuals. I am not referring to what is known as the loneliness epidemic that has been written about, talked about, and has recently been highlighted by the surgeon general as an epidemic. What I’d like to discuss is how we are completely disconnected, not only from others, but from ourselves.
Our Neshama, our soul, the part of us that is really who we are, is isolated. It may be inside us, but we almost never tap into her. We are so frenetically busy, we ignore her entirely. We can be in the most spirituality-inducing setting possible, and we just ignore what’s bubbling up inside.
They say a story about a man at a funeral who turns to the officiating rabbi right before the service begins and asks him for the WiFi password. The rabbi’s incredulous. “Have some respect!”
“Thanks rabbi. Is that all lowercase?”
It’s a funny joke, but it’s a sad commentary on society.
We don’t give our soul, and by soul, I mean, our deepest feelings, our yearnings, an opportunity to breathe.
We bombard ourselves with endless memes, clips, and news flashes, and we’re left clueless as to who we really are. Sometimes the content is Torah content, and it’s still a distraction.
We are so busy consuming content that we forget that we are content creators; there is a fabulously rich creative reality living under the surface.
Instead, we ignore her because we’re too busy and too overwhelmed to pay attention.
Rabbeinu Bachya, in Chovos Halevavos, written in the 11th century, speaks of Pizur Hanefesh, the fracturing of the soul, when we feel like we are all over the place. It’s not a new phenomenon, but in 2025, it’s especially insidious.
Rav Itamar Schwartz, author of Bilvavi Mishkan Evneh, suggests that the fracturing of the soul comes from a good place. Our souls are thirsty – they want so much, but they can’t make up their mind. And so, we jump from thing to thing, from idea to idea, even from inspiration to inspiration. Rav Kook argues that as time marches on, there is not yeridat hadorot, a diminishment of spirituality. On the contrary, there is what he calls, aliyat hadorot, there is spiritual progression; the souls of every subsequent generation are more elevated than the generation before. And so aside from the technological advances that distract us so brilliantly, perhaps our souls are also hungrier than ever; we jump from one thing to the next because we want more.
One way or another, the pizur hanefesh, the sense of disconnect and being all over the place, is, in 2025, undoubtedly more pronounced than ever.
How do we deal with this terrible alienation of ourselves from ourselves?
How do we find ourselves in a world which bombards us with exciting and even inspiring messages at every turn?
Where do we develop the capacity to listen to a soul? How do we overcome pizur hanefesh and tap into who we really are and what we really need?
One person who grappled with this mightily was Rav Kook. He was the Chief Rabbi of what was not yet Israel. He writes: “I force myself to learn, act, socialize, to carry out various obligations until not a single thought ever gets the opportunity to become complete and mature.” It was a desperately poor country, he was in the middle of a firestorm of politics, and he had no time to breathe. Or perhaps more accurately, he had no time to think. And his soul languished and it killed him.
But he did not give up. He did not simply say, this is the new world, this is my reality. Instead, he shares us how he overcame this challenge: “The greater a person the more they must seek to discover themselves… We need to be alone frequently, to elevate our imagination, to deepen our thought, to liberate our mind. [Only then,] will our soul reveal itself to us by radiating some of its light upon us. Then we will find our happiness.”
What he is describing is not Hisbo’dedus, something Rav Nachman encourages, quiet time to speak to G-d. He is not describing meditation which is an exercise to silence the mind. What Rav Kook is describing is simply time for oneself. No podcast. No music. No devices. Silence.
What would it look like if this year we made our world a little quieter, a little less distracting, and give ourselves an opportunity to reacquaint ourselves with… ourselves? Wouldn’t that be nice?
We live in an era in which there are two powerful opposing forces going head-to-head – our souls have never been thirstier; I am fairly certain our grandparents didn’t yearn for closeness to G-d the way we do.
And yet, we have never been so bombarded by distractions, by an endless stream of stuff, some good, some bad, but all of it robbing us of a relationship with our inner selves.
What would it look like if this year for ten minutes a day we would just sit, or walk, or even drive in silence? Do you know how powerful that would be? An opportunity, in the words of Rav Kook, to “elevate our imagination, to deepen our thoughts, to liberate our mind.”
And if that’s too much, which it might be. Why don’t we start with a few minutes every day where we put our phones down, or if you are so tethered to your phone like I am, a half hour on ‘Personal Mode,’ silencing our phones from any notificatios?
Let’s reunite with ourselves. Not to be alone, but to be lonely.
***
The third form of aloneness that so many of us experience is our distance from G-d. And here there are two categories of people, some, and I’ll include myself in this category, who simply forget about G-d more often than we’d like to admit. We aspire to think about Him, to recognize we are always in His presence, but we don’t.
And then there is another category of people who don’t forget about Him. They think about Him all the time, and they are angry. Especially this time of year. Another year in which your prayers were not answered. Another year in which everyone around you seems to be doing just fine, but not you. Some question G-d and others accuse Him; why are You making my life so difficult?
I obviously don’t have any easy answers to those in this second category, but I do want to share a thought that has been on my mind.
I’m going to share with you something that many of you will find either mind-blowing or heretical, inspiring or deflating, I don’t know. And I want to be clear, not everyone agrees to this idea, but I think it’s something worth reflecting on.
The introduction to Nefesh Hachaim, written by Rav Yitzchak Volozhin, is a biography of his father, Rav Chaim Volozhin. His father was a scholar, a paragon of kindness, a leader, an innovator, he was so many things. But there was thing his father would say all the time with a lot of emotion. He would remind his son constantly, “We were not put in this world for ourselves, we were put in this world for others.”
The simple understanding of this is that we should be kind. We should think about other people.
But if you read the rest of the book, you will see that that’s not what he meant. He meant something much deeper. We are other people. As important as it is to get to know ourselves and our unique Neshama, we also have to recognize that we are all one being. We do not have an independent existence. This is true for all of civilization, and this is especially true for the Jewish People. We are truly one.
What Rav Chaim Volozhin was conveying to his son is that it is ridiculous to only care for yourself and not everyone around you. It’s like looking out for one your fingers and not the others. They’re all important and they are all connected; they are all one.
Westerners like us struggle with this idea. We place such a premium on independence that it’s hard to think about being connected to others. You know who lives this connectedness? Our brothers and sisters in Israel. Specifically, those who serve in the army. They are part of a unit. They are ready to sacrifice their lives for the lives of others.
Hold that thought.
From Rosh Hashana through Yom Kippur, your fate is being decided. Right?
But what if I told you that it’s not true?
What if I told you that at least according to some, there is a judgment taking place this week, but not the judgment that you are thinking of.
Rav Yosef Albo in Sefer Ikarim explains that the judgment of an individual does not take place while we are here on earth. Of course, there is absolute justice but that plays out in heaven after we die.
He proves this from a principle, s’char mitzvah b’hai alma leika. There is no reward for good deeds in this world. Individual reward and punishment is exclusively in the next world.
If so, what do all the passages in the Torah refer to when they say, ‘if you do what’s right you will get rewarded ad you do what’s wrong you will get punished?’ It sure sounds like there is reward and punishment in this world?!
He explains that we are judged on earth as a nation, as a collective, but not as a person.
(See the Kli Yakar in the beginning of Bechukosai for a list of answers to this question.)
For most people, the most moving part of the Rosh Hashana-Yom Kippur davening is Unesaneh Tokef. When we get to the words of, “who will live and who will die,” many of us shudder. We think about the many people we know who did not make it through the year. We wonder what the year ahead has in store for us.
The original text of those words, first found, in Vayikra Rabbah and also found in our Rosh Hashana machzor in the section of Zichronos, has those familiar words: aizo lacherev, v’aizo l’shalom. “Who will die by sword? Who will have peace?” But it is preceded with a few absolutely key words: V’al ham’dinos bo yei’omer, which means, about the countries it is said. What that means is that the passage that we always translate as a personal judgment, the moment that G-d decides if we will live or die, is actually a collective judgment. It is a judgment being made for the entire country, community, or people, not for an individual. That’s what we are davening for during these days. For G-d to have compassion on us as a community and as a nation.
I may have just completely ruined Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur for you. I’m sorry.
But I’m also not sorry. Because this interpretation demands of us to reorient how we think about ourselves and how we think about what happens to us.
When bad things happen to us, even if we were to say that it is a punishment, it’s not necessarily because I did something wrong, it’s because the Jewish People did something wrong, and for some reason, I am the one who is being punished. When good things happen to us, it’s because the people as a whole are deserving of reward.
I personally find this invigorating. We are standing before G-d this time of year not as an individuals, but as an army.
When an army goes into war, there are casualties. Did that particular soldier make a mistake that caused him or her to get shot? No. They are part of a unit, which is part of a troop, which is part of an army.
When we come back here year after year, wondering why G-d did not give me the job I wanted, the spouse I was looking for, the health I so desperately need, instead of thinking that G-d is punishing me, maybe we should think about ourselves as part of something so much greater than just ourselves. You are soldier! And oh how we love soldiers! We send them vests and socks and poorly drawn pictures by my five-year-old, anything we can fit into an oversized duffel bag. One of my colleagues, a rabbi with a good sense of humor, not too long after October 7th asked a soldier to make a video asking his congregants to pay their dues. He figured when soldiers ask us to do things, we listen.
In all seriousness, you are a soldier, you are part of an army. What is happening to you is helping all of us. I don’t know why you were chosen for this particular mission, but recognize the impact it has on all of us.
And like the soldiers of the IDF, it’s inspiring to see you in action. You keep showing up even though G-d is holding you back from all your dreams. He’s not punishing you; He’s punishing us. And we, those who were not chosen for this special-op, those of us who have boring lives, are grateful to you for being on the front line.
Will that help you be able to forgive G-d? To be less angry at Him? I don’t know, but I hope so. And truly, from the bottom of my inspired heart, thank you for showing up and being a soldier.
Then there’s the rest of us who have absolutely no excuse to not be constantly connecting to G-d. Despite all the many things He gives us, we just keep on forgetting that He’s here in our lives. It’s embarrassing.
There’s a story of a chasid who used to go and study with Reb Chayim Halberstam of Sanz, one of the great Chassid rebbes. This Chasid would travel some distance, and on the way there and back he would pass through a small town, where he stayed for Shabbos.
The rabbi in that small town also fancied himself to be a shtickl Rebbe, though he didn’t have many followers. “I can also teach you,” he told the chasid. “I’m closer to you. Why go to Sanz?”
“In Sanz,’ explained the chossid, “they are teaching me also how to be a yode’a machshovos” — to see into the hearts of those who are sitting before them, to divine their thoughts and concerns. You can’t teach me that.”
“Really?” said the local rabbi, a little skeptical of these powers. “Then what am I thinking now?”
“That’s easy,” said the chassid. “You’re thinking about G-d.”
“Aha!” the rabbi said triumphantly. “No, I most definitely am not thinking about G-d right now!”
The chasid shook his head. “Nu. Now you know why I go to Sanz.”
He’s everywhere and He’s everything and yet, we forget about Him constantly.
Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev used to give a regular sermon with one line and one line only – “Chevra, friends, G-d exists.” Simple to say. Hard to live with.
Rav Tzadok Hakohein has a suggestion for us. In the beginning of his most popular book, Tzidkas Hatzadik he teaches us that the Talmud begins with Meseches Berachos because a bracha is the entry point to our relationship with Hashem. Blessed are YOU, ATA – we remind ourselves, even fleetingly, that we are standing before Hashem.
To think about G-d constantly, impossible. To think about Him every time we say a bracha, ideally, but also quite difficult. But can we think about Him one bracha a day?
Maybe the first blessing you say every day, to say it, imagining G-d is before you, because He is.
And if you don’t say berachos, maybe this year you could start by saying one bracha a day, slowly with intention and with awareness that He is indeed standing before you.
One year, my commitment for the entire year was that the first time every day I would say Asher Yatzar, that exquisite blessing we say after relieving ourselves, I would say it slowly and with the simple thought that I am standing before G-d. It was transformative; it impacted my entire day.
I hope to do so again this year because it is so easy, despite living an observant life, to not live a life in the presence of G-d.
Lo tov heyos ha’adam l’vado, it is so bad for us to be alone. But it is so good to be lonely.
Imagine a year in which we embraced the loneliness of being a Jew by being proud Jews AND also recognizing our role among the nations, with the simple phrase, “G-d bless you,” to all those we encounter.
Imagine a year in which we were not feeling so estranged from our true selves? A year in which we spent some time – maybe just ten minutes a day – by ourselves and gave ourselves an opportunity to meet and get to know the real me, the soul bursting and bubbling inside. Or at the very least a year in which we silenced the great distractor buzzing in our pockets so we could at least acquaint ourselves with the people around us.
Imagine a year in which we got to know G-d. A year in which we remind ourselves at least once a day how He is always standing over us. Baruch Ata – You, Hashem, are right here.
Let’s stop imagining. Let’s stop being so alone.
Let’s embrace the mission-filled loneliness of being a Jew, the incredibly vibrant loneliness of being a person with a soul, of being a part of an army, and the soothing loneliness of having an utterly unique relationship with Hashem.
Kein y’hi ratzon.
by Ner Tamid | Sep 25, 2025 | Sermons
About a half hour drive from here, at the corner of Route 1 and Harford Rd. there is a park named The Henrietta Lacks Park. The young children who innocently swing and slide in the park are blissfully unaware of the dark backstory of Henrietta Lacks and the outsized influence this woman had on the world.
In 1950, Henrietta, a 30-year-old black woman, living in Baltimore city was not feeling well. She did not have an easy life, and her pain tolerance was quite high, so when she asked her husband to take her to the hospital, he knew something was wrong. Sure enough, a few tests later, it became clear she had cervical cancer. She immediately started treatment. During one of her physical exams, the doctor treating her did something that would change the course of history – he scraped a few cells from her cervix, placed them in a tube, and gave them to a colleague at Hopkins, a researcher by the name of Dr. Gey. This was done without getting Henrietta’s consent. A year later, she died.
Henrieta’s cells were the first cells to survive in a test tube. But not only did they survive, they doubled in size every 20 hours. Living cells that don’t die, that researchers can do all types of tests on endlessly, was the greatest possible gift to modern medicine. As soon as other researchers found out about these cells, Dr. Gey was bombarded with requests to share them, which he did.
Those cells, nicknamed the HeLa cell, played a crucial role in virtually every medical advancement in the past 70 years, including but not limited to, a vaccine for TB, polio, HPV, advancements in a wide variety of cancer treatments, medications to treat AIDS, and the development of in-vitro fertilization. All from those few cells, which could have fit on the tip of a ballpoint pen.
Henrietta never knew they took her cells for research. Her descendants did not know for decades how her cells were changing the world. And yet, those invisible pieces of matter were multiplying and changing the world.
The removal and usage of Henrietta’s were highly unethical. She never gave permission. The family was constantly lied to. And to make matters worse, while researchers and pharmaceutical companies were making billions off of her cells, her descendants were living in poverty.
But I imagine, had they asked her, had they told Henrietta, your cells can possibly cure cancer, they can cure TB, they help treat aids, they can help people who struggle with infertility have children, what do you think she would say? Of course, she would say, gladly!
And I imagine if I were to tell you that your cells have the ability to have the same impact. It wouldn’t take any surgery, just a tiny little procedure and you could save hundreds and thousands and maybe millions of lives? How often would you allow this little procedure to take place?
As often as possible. Right? That’s what I thought.
So, allow me to tell you another true story, not as well-known and not as controversial, but as you will see, just as impactful. It’s a story, told by Rabbi YY Jacobson, about a young man named Joey.
Joey is a B-list musician. He has a band and when they get gigs – which is not so often, they’re usually in smalltime bars up and down the East Coast. He’s played guitar on some movie soundtracks, and when he’s not playing music, he’s an avid fan of the Atlanta Braves.
Joey also happens to be Jewish. He doesn’t keep all the Mitzvos. He’s traditional. He makes Kiddush Friday night, he shows up to shul on the big holidays, he doesn’t eat pork. And he’s a staunch Zionist.
On Thursday, June 12th, Joey had a gig in Upstate New York, a gig no different than hundreds of gigs he’s had before. Poorly lit bar, smoke-filled room, lonely souls looking for fleeting human connection. The only difference was that on this night, Joey was a little distracted. Most of the televisions around the bar were playing sports games but one of them was showing the news. That date should sound familiar to you – Thursday, June 12th was the night the Israeli Air Force preemptively attacked Iran. He was singing, he was strumming, but his eyes were glued to that one screen; his heart was in the East.
Despite being the lead musician of his little band, Joey does not like attention, he likes to blend in and keep it simple. But on Thursday, June 12th something was tugging on him, and he decided to not ignore that feeling. He stopped mid-song and took the mike off the stand.
“Friends, he said, “I’ll be honest with you, I’m having a hard time concentrating tonight.” Drinks were put down, conversations paused. “I’m Jewish,” he announced, and quickly looked around. Upstate New York is not known to be the friendliest place for Jews, but there was just silence. He continued:
“Tonight, my brothers and sisters in Israel are fighting for their lives, and I am scared.” No politics; just an appeal from one human being to another in the universal language of familial love. Whether the people in the crowd were Democrats or Republicans, whatever their opinion of Jews were did not matter. They nodded along.
“If I could ask you to do me a favor. Can you do one good deed for my brothers and sisters? Can you commit to doing one small thing to make the world a better place? It would mean the world to me.” And then he continued playing.
I admire Joey, I really do.
First and foremost, I admire Joey’s chutzpah. His unabashed Jewish pride is a breath of fresh air.
I also admire his willingness to listen to his soul, to his Neshama. How often do we feel the tug that Joey felt? How often do we feel a little voice inside questioning our actions, encouraging us to do something different. Maybe it’s to be a better spouse. Maybe it’s to find more time for our children or for Torah learning. Maybe it’s to make Aliyah. But most of us keep strumming. Most of us allow the rhythm of our life to continue unabated. And that little voice, that Neshama of ours, eventually stops trying. But Joey listened to his soul.
But there’s another part of me that also feels a little cynical. So he cared about Israel and wasn’t able to concentrate. So he stopped his little concert and made a little plea to a handful of people. So he committed to doing a good deed and asked others to do the same. Is that really such a big deal?
This is not a criticism against Joey; it’s a mirror to my own insecurities. For the past 700 days of war, young and not very young men in Israel are dying weekly; I am sitting at home. The Israeli economy is teetering because the workforce is on the battlefield; I am going to work. Mothers and fathers aren’t sleeping because their children, their little teenage children, are going into battle; my children are going to the mall.
Do we make a difference? Are our two chapters of Tehilim after services really all that meaningful? The yellow pins, the small commitments we made, the learning we have taken on in their merit, does any of it really matter? Or are we just doing all this to assuage our guilt for not living in Israel, for not serving in the IDF, for not sacrificing our lives? Are all the signs, and the protests, and the good deeds, one elaborate act of self-deception so we could sleep at night?
Joey went home. That Friday night, he had a dream. In that dream, a rabbi with a long beard appeared and shared with him the following: “Joey, your message at the bar had an incredible impact on the world. There was a woman in the crowd who is Jewish. After hearing your message, she decided that despite having had nothing to do with Judaism for over 40 years since her Bat Mitzvah, she decided she was going to light Shabbos candles that Friday night. And she did. And those Shabbos candles that she lit literally saved hundreds of lives in Israel.”
If you recall, when Iran responded to Israel’s attacks, despite firing directly into high-density civilian locations, despite the Israeli government planning for mass casualties, the number of people killed was remarkably and miraculously low.
Joey, who went to a Jewish day school, understood what the rabbi was trying to convey. A Mitzvah, according to the Kabbalists, is not just a good deed that helps build good character. The Gemara proclaims: “Chayav adam lomar, bishvili nivra ha’olam, a person must say, the world was created for me.” The Biblical account of the creation of humankind, which according to our tradition took place today, 5786 years ago, has G-d creating one human being. Why wasn’t Eve created at the same time as Adam? Why did Hashem first create one person? “To teach us,” says the Gemara, “that the entire world was created for one individual. And not just Adam, but one individual just like you.”
Some understand this to mean that a person should wake up every morning and appreciate the incredible universe and be grateful and feel as if G-d created all this, all the beauty and complexity, just for me. But Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, takes a different approach, one which I believe to be, possibly the most fundamental idea in Judaism. This idea is the only thing you need to remember at all times, everything else is commentary.
This is what he says: Bishvili nivra ha’olam means that G-d created the world in such a way that a single person has the ability to transform the world. We think that to make a difference in the world, we need to start an organization, we need to have 25 thousand followers on social media, we need to be the president of a fortune 500 company. But our sages teach us that G-d would have created the world just for you. Because your actions, just you! – your Mitzvos, they can bring about the objective of creation, they can transform the world.
And not only when you do many good deeds. Rav Levi Yitzchak continues, when a SINGLE individual does a SINGLE Mitzvah it brings שפע לכל העולמות ולכל המלאכים ולכל הנשמות ולעולם התחתון, every Mitzvah brings a Divine flow of spiritual energy into all the worlds, into all the angels, into all the souls that exist in the upper and lower worlds.
Every single one of us is Henrietta Lacks. Every single one of us has the power, with just a tiny bit of effort, to radically alter the world. Just a few cells – a little prayer, a little Torah study, or a little kindness, has the ability to change the world. We may not see it, we may not feel it, we may not even know it’s happening, but neither did Henrietta Lacks.
That’s what the rabbi in Joey’s dream was telling him. You, Joey, with your soft-spoken words, caused this woman who hadn’t been connected to Judaism in decades to light Shabbos candles that Friday night. Later that night, she probably turned on her tv, had a ham sandwich, closed some lights, and went on with her life. But that one tiny action, that one Mitzvah, somehow saved lives in Israel, it changed the world.
Joey woke up, thought about his dream for a moment or two, and then shrugged his shoulders and went on with his day. He completely dismissed the dream. What was going through his mind is likely not that different than what is going through yours. Cute idea, rabbi, but I don’t buy it. If I say one word of prayer, does it really make a difference. When I put on my tefillin, when I light my Shabbos candles, maybe I feel good; but change the world?! C’mon.
And I hear you. I have no way of proving this concept to you, I don’t. If I could be even more honest, I would say, I believe it, but I often struggle with really believing it. But I’ve realized that I have a choice:
There are two ways to look at life. One is he following quote that lives in my head: “One day, you and everyone you love will die. And beyond a small group of people for an extremely brief period of time, little of what you say or do will ever matter. This is the Uncomfortable Truth of life. And everything you think or do is but an elaborate avoidance of it. We are inconsequential cosmic dust, bumping and milling about on a tiny blue speck.”
I could choose to believe that I am inconsequential cosmic dust, but I could also choose to believe that my actions impact the cosmos.
I could choose to believe that I am a sophisticated animal chasing after my base desires, or I could choose to believe that I am infused with a soul more spiritual than an angel and my every breath is a spiritual fire.
I could choose to believe that I am a nobody, or I could choose to believe bishvili nivra ha’olam, that G-d would have created this world just for me, and just for you, and that our individual actions have the power to change this world.
Over the past month, I have had one piece of paper, actually a sticker in my pocket, that says, bishvili nivra ha’olam, and it has changed me. It really has. Because if we choose to believe bishvili nivra ha’olam, it changes our life.
Every time I was too tired to concentrate on my prayers, and subconsciously thought, who cares, I said no! Bishvili nivra ha’olam! These words can save lives!
Every time I was about to lose my cool or get frustrated, I said no! Bishvili nivra ha’olam! My actions will reverberate within my family and not only them but the cosmos for all of time.
Every time I was feeling small and insignificant, I reminded myself how false that is. Bishvili nivra ha’olam! It became my mantra, and it truly changed me, and I hope it can change you.
I actually made some stickers for you. You’re welcome. They’ll be in the back of shul at the end of davening. Take one. Because once we open our eyes to this reality, once we accept that our every word of prayer is a nuclear reactor, our every kind deed is an earthquake, our every thought is a blistering force, you can’t go back to living a simple life. Bishvili nivra ha’olam demands of us to live every moment to the fullest.
***
The Klausenberger Rebbe, a survivor of the Holocaust; a Hungarian rabbi who lost his entire family, his wife and eleven children, in Aushchwitz, was liberated in April 1945 and his first Yom Kippur after the war was in a DP camp. On Yom Kippur night before Kol Nidrei, he got up to speak and he shared the following message. He opened the Machzor and started quoting the confessional prayer, the Vidui:
“Ashamnu, we were guilty,” he read. And then he looked up. “Did we even have the ability to sin? We had no energy to do anything. Bagadnu: did we betray G-d? No we did not. Gazalnu, we stole. Was there anything left to steal during these terrible years?
“This Vidui,” the Rebbe said, “is not for us,” and he closed the machzor. And then he continued, “There is one sin that we are guilty of. We told Hashem that we cannot take it anymore, that He should end it for us…. How many times did we pray, Master of the Universe, I have no more strength, take my soul? How many times did we wake up and ask ourselves, is it worth it? What’s the point?”
“Our sin,” he said, “is that we did not believe that we have a role to play. We sinned because we did not believe that we can make a real difference. That is something we need to do teshuva over. That is something we need to beg G-d for forgiveness, how we didn’t recognize that everything we do is consequential. That is something we need to change. To believe not only in G-d, but to believe in ourselves. Bishvili nivra ha’olam!”
You’re about to open your Machzor. You’re about to stand before G-d. You may not read Hebrew, you may think you are a nobody and G-d doesn’t want to hear from you. It’s not true. Bishvili nivra ha’olam. Your words matter, in any language, in any place.
You’re going to go home. You’re going to sit with your family. You may think what happens behind closed doors is irrelevant. It’s not true. Bishvili nivra ha’olam. Your actions matter.
You’re going to go back to your regular life. You may think I am not the greatest Jew after all; I don’t keep everything like I should, what’s one more small misdeed, why should I bother doing one small Mitzvah among so many sins? It’s not true. It’s not true. It is false. Bishvili nivra ha’olam.
The opportunities to pray, to study Torah, to do Mitzvos are endless. Every one of them can be earth-shattering. Had Henrietta Lacks known her power, would she have said, only take a few cells? Of course not. And neither should you! Every moment is a goldmine of earth-shattering opportunities. Please take advantage of your immense power.
***
On Monday morning, Joey got an email. “Dear Joey, I spent the last few days trying to track you down. I was at the bar you played at last week. Honestly, I wasn’t paying attention to the music, but I listened to what you said about Israel and Iran. Something about the way you said it really struck a chord. I happen to be Jewish, not a practicing Jew in any way shape or form. But I decided, after hearing you speak, that I should do something special even though I hadn’t done anything Jewish since Hebrew school. Thanks to your inspiration, this past Friday night, I lit candles for Shabbat.”
When we accept that bishvili nivra ha’olam, we cannot go back to living life like we did until now. Your every word matters. Your every action matters. You matter.
We are so grateful to our brothers and sisters on the front line, they are doing so much, and so are we. Let’s make this a year in which on every day and in every moment we remind ourselves, bishvili nivra ha’olam.
by Ner Tamid | Sep 25, 2025 | Sermons
Not a day goes by that there is not a new social media trend. A new dance, a new prank, a new voiceover. Virtually all of them are here today and gone tomorrow. But there is one trend that seems to have an impressive amount of staying power and that is the We Do Not Care Club.
Melani Sanders started The We Do Not Care Club in May, which in the social media world is like a century ago. She was going through menopause, a difficult time in many women’s lives, and she realized that there are certain things that she simply no longer cares about. She sat in her car, turned her phone’s video to face her, and started recording: “We do not care what our hair looks like from the back, we cannot see the back.” “We do not care if we made plans yesterday. If we didn’t sleep last night, those plans are cancelled.” “We do not care if we don’t show up for the family cookout. Most of you have undiagnosed trauma that we honestly just don’t want to deal with right now.” And on and on about all the things that in this stage of life, she has no space for in her mind and just does not care about. She asked her followers to share things they no longer care about and the lists came in fast and furious.
This trend spawned endless imitations. Educators started the Teachers We Do Not Care Club in which teachers expressed their frustrations with excessive demands and unrealistic expectations in the education system by stating they “do not care” about extra decorating expenses or unnecessary professional development. We Do Not Care Clubs were created for every profession and every stage of life.
No one started a Rabbis We Do Not Care Club. But if they did it would go something like this: “We do not care that your lunch today is planned for 1 PM or if you don’t like my sermon. If you want to leave, leave.”
“We do not care if you do not like the color of my tie. I am not sure why you think this is something you should be weighing in on.”
“We do not care that you were not seated next to your best friend during services. You are not here to talk.”
The truth is all these imitations really missed the point. Melani Sanders was not just complaining. She was shining a light on all the things that do not really matter in life. When she spoke about wearing pajamas all day, because “clothes is clothes,” what she was getting at is how ridiculous it is that we spend so much money and time on clothing. When she said she does not care about people who think she has a bad attitude, she was highlighting how much energy we expend worrying about what other people think about us. The We Do Not Care Club, at its core, is a reminder of how much of our time and resources we expend on things that don’t really matter.
***
The great psychologist and writer, Irvin Yalom, begins his classic book, Love’s Executioner, with the following passage. He is describing a retreat for successful professionals:
“Imagine this scene: three to four hundred people, strangers to each other, are told to pair up and ask their partner one single question, “What do you want?” over and over and over again.
Could anything be simpler? One innocent question and its answer.
And yet, time after time, I have seen this group exercise evoke unexpectedly powerful feelings. Often, within minutes, the room rocks with emotion. Men and women—and these are by no means desperate or needy but successful, well-functioning, well-dressed people who glitter as they walk—are stirred to their depths. They call out to those who are forever lost -dead or absent parents, spouses, children, friends: “I want to see you again.” “I want your love.” “I want to know you’re proud of me.” “I want you to know I love you and how sorry I am I never told you.” “I want you back—I am so lonely.” “I want the childhood I never had.” “I want to be healthy—to be young again. I want to be loved, to be respected. I want my life to mean something. I want to accomplish something. I want to matter, to be important, to be remembered.”
So much wanting. So much longing. And so much pain, so close to the surface, only minutes deep. Destiny pain. Existence pain. Pain that is always there, whirring continuously just beneath the membrane of life.”
What do you want? What really matters?
That is the question at the core of the We Do Not Care Club and its popularity. It’s at the core of existential psychotherapy, a field of therapy that Yalom created. And it’s at the core of what we are doing here today.
Like the people in Yalom’s exercise, we fill our time, we fill our mind, we fill our lives with so much that distracts us from what we really want.
On a typical day, the average adult spends 2 hours and 24 minutes on social media. The average adult spends a little less than five hours watching television. Which when you do the math – between social media, television, eating and sleeping, you have to wonder if anyone actually works anymore.
Have we become better people because of all that time glued to our devices? More refined? More driven? More loving?
Unwinding is healthy, but at what cost?
How many times have we ignored a loved one because we were too busy scrolling? “What did you say?”
How many children feel unloved because the only time they see their parents lock eyes, it’s with their screen?
Sometimes our distractions are holy distractions.
The other day I was on the phone with a rabbi from another community helping him set up a beautiful program ensuring children of single parents have someone to sit with in shul. Does not get more important than that. Right?
Only that Miri, my five-year-old was pulling on my leg. She was trying to build a home out of magna-tiles and they kept falling down. I kept motioning to her, one minute, one minute, one minute. I am on the phone, I mouthed to her.
Until it hit me, what’s wrong with me? I am setting up a program to ensure that children have adults in their lives, and I, one of the two most important adults in my child’s life am ignoring her?!
How many times have I been distracted with the loftiest of distractions taking me away from what and who really matters?
What do you want? What really matters?
Stephen Covey, in The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, distinguishes between Proactive and Reactive People. How do you know if you are proactive or reactive? He suggests that we draw a circle of concern – what are the things that we use our emotional energy on; our family, our job, national debt, politics, the situation in Israel, the Ravens. Then draw a second circle within that circle around the things that we have some level of control over. It’s usually a much smaller circle – our family, our job, our immediate community. For proactive people these two circles are more or less aligned. We spend time and emotions on the things we can change. Reactive people typically have a far larger circle of concern than a circle of influence. They spend endless emotional energy and time on things they cannot control.
Most of my colleagues are speaking about Israel this morning. I’m not and I feel a little guilty. It is on everyone’s mind; Gaza, Netanyahu, the hostages, the Charedi draft. These are important matters and I feel strongly about each of these topics. But can my opinion or your opinion on any of these topics change anything at all? Can we really move the needle on these issues? Maybe, for some of them, just a little, but not much. Our circle of real influence, for most us, ends at these shul walls, with family, with friends, and with our immediate community.
And so, on this holy day, instead of talking about what is important in Israel, or across this country, we’d be far more constructive if we ask ourselves, what is in my circle of influence? Because that is what really matters.
***
Rav Yehuda Amital was an incredibly accomplished man. A survivor of the Holocaust, founder of the Hesder Yeshiva movement, first Rosh Yeshiva of the elite Har Etzion yeshiva, he even established his own political party and served briefly as a minister. Exceptionally smart, ambitious, and accomplished. Despite his brilliance and the brightness of his students- or perhaps because of it, every Rosh Hashana, he would give variations of the following speech.
The Shofar, he would suggest, represents simplicity. On Rosh Hashana we do not turn to G-d with words because words, even words of prayer, can distort what we really want and who we really are. So we turn to Him with a simple sound from the depth of our hearts. With the blow of the shofar, we are trying to tap into our core; we are trying to focus on who in our life and what in our life really makes a difference.
This is the exercise of Rosh Hashana. וְכָל בָּאֵי עוֹלָם יַעַבְרוּן לְפָנֶיךָ. Every one of us, over the next hour and a half, is going to stand before G-d. All our charm, all our defense mechanisms, all our fancy clothing and witty one-liners are stripped away. He strips away our intellect, He strips away our social status. He is trying to get to the truth of who we are. And the higher the truth of something, writes Rav Kook, the simpler it is.
And all He wants to know, is what do you want? What really matters?
Is it the exotic trips around the world? Or will I focus on changing the world – or at least my immediate surroundings?
Do I really want to look good? Or will I invest my time this year into being good?
Do I want to be popular, or do I want to be kind?
Will I spend all my energy caring about the people outside my home? Or will I focus on those who depend on my love and care? Those in my small little circle of influence.
As we listen to the simple Shofar blast, let’s try to answer these simple set of questions – What do you want? What really matters?
Allow me to conclude where I began. The We Don’t Care Club. I wrote a small poem, not humorous in any way, but imagining what G-d’s I Don’t Care Club would sound like.
I do not care what shoes you wear.
I do not care which sports teams you follow.
I do not care where you went on vacation.
I do not care about the great book you borrowed.
I do not care how much you weigh.
I do not care how many friends you have.
I do not care if your house is clean.
Or if you follow the latest fads.
And you know what else I don’t care about?
I do not care if you love or hate Trump.
Nor if you’re pro-life or you’re pro-choice.
Of course, these are important,
But how much of a difference can you make with your one voice?
I do not care if you think Chareidim are enemies of the state.
You do not live in Israel; why are you wasting so much hate?
And so I beg of you –
stop expending time and energy on things you cannot change.
Your days and years are dwindling, who knows how many remain?
What I DO care about is the little circle that I placed you right inside,
A few friends, some family, community, who rely on you to provide –
A smile, understanding, forgiveness, to try to be a good Jew.
There’s nothing else I care about, and neither should you.
