by Ner Tamid | May 10, 2026 | Sermons
The Jewish poet, Achad Ha’am, famously said, “More than the Jewish People kept Shabbos, Shabbos kept the Jewish People.” Today, I’d like to suggest that Shabbos not only kept the Jews, but Shabbos kept the American People.
In President Trump’s declaration announcing May as Jewish Heritage Month, he wrote: “This month, we celebrate the contributions that Jewish Americans have made to our way of life, we honor their role in shaping the story of our Nation.” While there are many Jewish values and Jewish People that have been pivotal in the American way of life, I’d like to argue that Shabbos has played an outsized role.
In that declaration, President Trump dedicated next Shabbos, May 15-16, as a time to reflect on American Jewish history. But if I were to dedicate next Shabbos to this theme, 50% of you would be upset that I listened to President Trump. If I were to skip it entirely, the other 50% of you would be furious that I ignored the President. As a compromise, we’ll dedicate this Shabbos to American Jewish history… In all honesty, I read the proclamation quickly and I got the date wrong. I suppose you could say, we’re doing early Shabbos… So here goes, “More than the American People kept Shabbos, Shabbos kept the American People.” (And you’re welcome to all the rabbis who want to use this drasha next week…)
In 1752, a bell was commissioned by the Pennsylvania Provincial Assembly. On July 8, 1776, the bell was rung to inform people of the Declaration of Independence. Years later, it became a symbol for the Abolitionists who dubbed it the Liberty Bell. The inscription on the bell is a verse from this week’s parsha, “Proclaim Liberty thro’ all the Land to all the Inhabitants thereof.” It refers to Yovel, the ‘super-Shabbos.’ Every seven years, the land has its own Shabbos and following every cycle of seven years, there is an additional year of Shabbos. In other words, Shabbos was part of the nation’s ideological fabric from before its inception.
In 1793, Jonas Phillips, a Revolutionary War Veteran, was called to testify in court on Shabbos. He refused – he argued that it infringed upon his religious practices. He was fined, he appealed, and the fine was waived. Legal experts consider this the first recorded case of religious liberties being tested in the United States of America.
In 1849, a judge by the incredible name, Judge Lawless, ruled that those who observe Saturday as a day of rest would be allowed to work on Sunday. Until this time, Jews were at a disadvantage, unable to work on Shabbos and prevented by the law to work on Sunday. This groundbreaking ruling was welcomed by Quakers, Mennonites, and other minority groups who wanted to not just be tolerated but welcomed into American society as equals.
Despite these rulings, there was still plenty of tension around religious freedoms. In 1851, a case was heard by the Philadelphia court concerning the conversion of Warder Cresson. Warder Cresson was no ordinary man, he was a wealthy farmer, who was appointed as the US consul to Jerusalem. Jerusalem at the time was a backwater and didn’t really need a consul, but using his wealth and influence he persuaded the government to create the position and appoint him. Shortly after arriving in Palestine, he converted to Judaism. When he returned home from Palestine, he found out that his wife had taken over his entire business enterprise claiming that Warden was insane and that he should be committed to an insane asylum. Her argument? Anyone who chose to convert to Judaism must be crazy (not entirely wrong, by the way).
The local sheriff ruled in her favor, but they quickly found themselves in court where Cresson appealed the ruling. One of the star witnesses brought forward by Cresson was a naturalist by the name Peter Browne who proved to the audience and jury that Cresson was not insane by examining specimens of Cresson’s hair roots and contrasting them with his specimens he obtained at a Virginia insane asylum. The court ruled in his favor. In the United States of America, one could proudly choose to identify with a minority group and not be considered crazy. The First Amendment would be upheld.
Despite these rulings, it was still exceptionally difficult to keep Shabbos. The many Jews who immigrated to the United States at the turn of the 20th century were faced with an impossible decision, work on Saturday or keep Shabbos and live in poverty. Many Jews could not withstand the challenge.
Even those who did observe Shabbos were impacted. There is a famous story of a man who visited Rav Moshe Feinstein. He complained that he kept Shabbos and nonetheless his children did not. Rav Moshe suggested that maybe it was the way he kept Shabbos that prevented his children from following in his ways. “When you came home on Friday after being fired from yet another job,” asked Rav Moshe, “did you sigh or did you celebrate? If your children heard you say, ‘shver tzu zayn a Yid/ it’s hard to be a Jew,’ then of course, they didn’t follow you.” It would take years until Jews could proudly sing and proclaim, ‘Gehsmack to be a Yid/ it’s awesome to be a Jew.’ It’s a mindset we still struggle with.
In the 1920’s, a Jewish group known as the Sabbath Alliance started advocating for a 5-day work week. Initially, they were unsuccessful. Eventually, they joined forces with the labor unions, who brought industries to a standstill with their strikes. Historians suggest that the turning point took place in a Jewish-owned mill in New England, where the business owners instituted a 5-day week to allow their Jewish and Christian workers their own respective day of rest. By the 1950’s, the five-day work week became the norm across the country and eventually, the Western World.
And then there is the modern Shabbos. In our hyper-connected and never-off digital world, the notion of a digital Sabbath, going off electronics for 24 hours and the value of dedicating a day to family and faith has become trendy. Charlie Kirk, who observed Saturday as his day of rest, concludes his book, Stop in the Name of G-d, with the following passage: “Imagine if America began to honor the Sabbath again—not merely as a personal spiritual practice, but as a national cultural rhythm. Picture Saturday once again becoming a time of collective pause. … Our frayed, fractured society would begin to knit itself back together, not through government programs or corporate initiatives, but through G-d’s design: one day in seven set apart for healing, remembering, and being human again. … The Sabbath would become not just a private act of worship, but a public act of restoration.”
First Amendment rights, religious freedoms, the five-day work week, digital detox, and a desperately needed time for family. More than the American People kept Shabbos, Shabbos kept the American People.
What I find beautiful about this historic overview is that in each generation a new element of Shabbos was discovered and appreciated. In one generation, it represented First Amendment rights and religious liberties, in another the importance of taking a break in our work, and in another the value of family and looking up from our screens. I wonder what value of Shabbos will be discovered in fifty years from now.
But no matter how deep we go, no matter how many universal values we mine from Shabbos, there will always be an element of Shabbos that is relevant to us, the Jewish People, and us alone. There is a well-known Halacha that it’s forbidden for a non-Jew to fully observe Shabbos, but it’s very hard to understand. Considering all the great benefits that Shabbos brings to those who observe it, why does G-d not allow non-Jews to observe Shabbos? The Medrash Rabbah explains this strange law with a parable of a king and queen alone in their bedroom who are interrupted by a stranger. Shabbos is an intimate rendezvous with G-d, who on Shabbos, is described as Yedid Nefesh, my lover.
It sounds lofty, and I struggle to convey what this means in practical terms, so allow me to describe a little bit of my inner experience of Shabbos, and I hope it will allow us to appreciate what Shabbos is meant to be.
By the end of the week, I am tired, physically and emotionally, after six days of giving it my all. More than being drained, I feel distant from myself, from who I know I could be. Despite my title as rabbi and despite dedicating my waking hours to what I believe to be a G-dly mission, I’m embarrassed to say, I often don’t feel G-d. I am usually so consumed by the task at hand that I cannot feel anything beyond. I imagine I am not the only one who feels this way on a regular basis.
I come to shul on Friday night and start Kabbalas Shabbos and it’s just regular praying; I try to pay attention, but often find myself distracted, having finished a passage without really knowing how I got there. And then we get to L’cha Dodi. It doesn’t matter who the chazzan is, it doesn’t matter what tune is chosen, it doesn’t matter if I’m davening by myself, there is something about the words, the message, that grabs me almost every week: “Hisna’ari mei’afar kumi, get up from the dirt! Livshi bigdei tifarteich ami, put on your royal clothes!” I am reminded that I am not the sum total of my struggles; I am royalty in a loving relationship with Hashem, I have more to offer. “Uri, uri, shir dabeiri, wake up, wake up, sing your song!” “K’vod Hashem alayich niglah!” There is a personal mission, a song that only I can sing; G-d is hovering over me.
Sometimes that feeling lasts through the night, sometimes it stays with me through Shabbos morning, and sometimes I even hold on until the end of Shabbos. And sometimes, it’s just a fleeting moment of connection. But it’s worth it. All the restrictions, all the rushed preparation, all the sacrifices of the week, for a moment of closeness with G-d. This is what our broader society does not and cannot understand. Shabbos is not a means to an end – rest so you’ll be recharged for next week, turn off your device so you’ll have the mental energy for tomorrow, spend a moment with family so you could drown in work all week – no! Shabbos is the goal. Shabbos is the sum total of our efforts. Shabbos is so much bigger than 250 years of incredible American history. Shabbos is the weekly opportunity to merge heaven and earth, our yearning soul with its lover, Hashem. L’cha dodi is my opening into the beauty of Shabbos, but each of us can find their own way of tapping into the G-dly intimacy that Shabbos has to offer.
And so yes, President Trump is right. We should be grateful to this country, and we should be proud of the impact Judaism has had on its ethos. But we can’t stop there.
Can we put our phones down for 25 hours and recharge our soul? Can we take our Shabbos meals seriously and fill them with meaningful conversation, a weekly opportunity to strengthen our family values? Can we look into the eyes of our loved ones for a few moments a week and connect ever so deeply? Can we lose ourselves in a book for a few hours, preferably a Jewish book, and allow our minds and aspirations to soar? Can we take advantage of the magical atmosphere on Shabbos and pray, slowly, thoughtfully? Can we sing – here at shul, at home, yes, song – the ultimate spiritual tool to bring people together that allows us to feel the edges of our soul? And can we try to soar above this physical world and lovingly connect with Hashem?
Not just this Shabbos, not just next Shabbos, but every Shabbos.
Good Shabbos, Shabbat Shalom.
by Ner Tamid | May 6, 2026 | Sermons
Incident #1 – On April 23rd, in a café in Modi’in, a Jewish man was arrested because of his kippah. His kippah, which they confiscated, had an Israeli flag on one side and a Palestinian flag on the other. When he was released from police detention, he demanded his kippah, which they returned, only that the police officers had cut off half the kippah, the part that had the Palestinian flag.
Incident #2 – On April 19th, a video surfaced online, showing two IDF soldiers in Lebanon, smashing a statue of Jesus.
Incident #3 – Over the past two months there has been a sharp increase in violent activity against Arabs living in Yehuda and Shomron. This violence, which has been perpetrated by masked Jews who live in the region, includes the killing of eight Arabs, and injuring over 200. It has gotten so bad that an IDF battalion that was on its way to Lebanon had to be sent to Yehuda and Shomron to keep the peace.
I have hesitated to discuss this violence publicly because Israel was at war. When your brother is getting beaten over the head, when missiles are falling daily, it is not the time to give your brother feedback. To criticize Israel in the midst of an existential war is, in my opinion, a distortion of values and downright dangerous – there is nothing that our enemies love more than quoting Jews who are critical of Israel.
But now that there is a lull in the war, we are hearing from Israelis, staunch right-wing Israelis, who are speaking openly about a growing problem. General Avi Bluth, the chief officer of Israel’s central command, one of the most high-ranking officers in the country and who is most definitely right-leaning, was recently quoted as saying that: These “terrorists” – referring to the Jews perpetrating these crimes, “are causing unfathomable damage to the State of Israel and Zionist enterprise.” They are “a disgrace to the Jewish people” and he is personally “ashamed.”
We could discuss the nuance of incidents 1 and 2. Is it appropriate to place a Palestinian flag, which has taken on a very dark connotation over the past years, on a kippah? Is a statue of Jesus an idol and should therefore be broken? All fascinating questions, but really, to me, missing the point. There is an underlying sickness that connects these three incidents that I want to focus on, something General Bluth said explicitly: “These people don’t see Arabs as human beings…”
So let’s take a few moments this morning to describe Judaism’s view of people who are not Jewish, people who practice other faiths, and non-Jews who live in the land of Israel.
Non-Jews living in the land of Israel is fairly straightforward. There is absolutely no problem with a non-Jew living in Israel. The Torah often refers to a ger toshav, a gentile who accepted a basic level of morality and is not actively attacking us. We are obligated to look out for such people. Simple.
If those people attack us, it goes without saying that we are obligated to defend ourselves. It should go without saying that there are innocent casualties in any war. As intelligent people, we could stand by the IDF with pride, knowing that they are waging war for the security of the Jewish people and we could mourn the inevitable loss of innocent lives. Simple.
What’s not so simple is our perspective to people of other faiths. To address this, I’m not going to cherry-pick sources because that’s an insult to your intelligence. I’m not going to pretend that this is not a complex question because it is. I’m not going to claim, as some in other denominations of Judaism claim, that Judaism blindly embraces all people and respects all faiths because it’s simply not true.
Shakespeare once said, “the devil doth quote scripture.” Anyone can find sources in the Talmud to back up whatever view they believe in. Go ask the Groypers, the far-right antisemitic followers of Nick Fuentes, who find random lines in the Talmud that they use as proof that the Jews are out to take over the world. That’s not how an Orthodox Jew thinks. Our Mesorah, our tradition, is built on the shoulders of sages who mastered all of our sources and synthesized them into a coherent philosophy. If you don’t have the breadth of knowledge and the fear of G-d of Maimonides, the Vilna Gaon, or one of our established Torah scholars, you cannot simply spit out some AI-generated sources and pretend that they are the sum total of Jewish thought.
So today, I’d like to share with you A view. It is not the only view; there are, in our tradition, a range of normative views on every element of Jewish thought. But this is a view that I subscribe to and I would encourage you to strongly consider.
The proponents of the view I’ll be sharing are Rav Yosef Albo, one of the leading Spanish scholars of the 15th century, Rav Yaakov Emden, seen as one of the greatest scholars of the 18th century, Rav Ovadia Seforno, head of the 16th century Italian Jewish community, Menachem HaMeri, the leading sage of Provence in the 13th century, the poet and scholar, Rav Yehuda HaLevi, Rav Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin, the Rosh Yeshiva of the esteemed Volozhin Yeshiva, and Rav Avraham Yitzchak Kook. You get the point. While there are dissenting views within our tradition, these views, although they all diverge at different points, taken together represent a general attitude towards non-Jews that goes like this:
In a few days we will celebrate the giving of the Torah. There is nothing that screams, “only the Jews are important!” like the moment that we, only the Jewish People, stood at Mt. Sinai, and received a particular set of commandments that were relevant to them and them alone. However, in the lead-up to the giving of the Torah, G-d describes the nation of Israel. He explains why He is giving us the Torah. “V’atem ti’h’yu li mamleches kohanim, you shall be for a me a kingdom of priests.” Commenting on this verse, Rav Ovadia Seforno writes: לְהָבִין וּלְהוֹרוֹת לְכָל הַמִּין הָאֱנוֹשִׁי לִקְרֹא כֻלָּם בְּשֵׁם ה’, “to understand and to teach all the nations of the world to call out in the name of G-d.” We were given the Torah, says the Seforno, not for ourselves, but to share its wisdom with others. The Netziv, in his introduction to the Book of Shemos, adds that this is the purpose of the world.
Now does this mean that we are to convert the nations of the world to Judaism? Absolutely not.
But it’s deeper than not proselytizing. Rav Albo explains that each nation has its own unique character. Stemming from a deep belief in diversity, he argues that each nation must have their own set of laws. While the Torah is the perfect fit for the Jewish Nation, it is incompatible to other nations. They are expected to establish their own laws and their own customs that reflect their national character. Those laws are a reflection of their own unique spiritual identity.
Rav Kook, who has the most extreme and controversial take, argues that G-d gave other nations prophets. He sees no issue in assuming that genuine prophecy existed in other nations. He goes so far as to say that it is conceivable that G-d performed miracles for those prophets. In other words, while many Jewish thinkers assume that any miracles attributed to Jesus or Mohammad were fabrications, Rav Kook says, why not? G-d cares for the nations, He desires for them to live a moral life, and so Hashem supports their prophets to see their mission through. (L’nevuchei HaDor)
How should we relate to moral and upstanding gentiles? While some of our great thinkers (most notably, the Baalei Tosafos) made a technical distinction between Christians and idolators to allow for commerce, Rav Yaakov Emden described Christians and Muslims as “our brothers.” (And if you know anything about Rav Yaakov Emden, you would know that he was not an apologist. He meant it.)
Rav Emden was following in the footsteps of Menachem HaMeiri who argues that all the laws in the Talmud that distinguish between Jew and non-Jew do not apply to non-Jews who live upstanding lives. Contrary to a simple reading of a Mishna in Yoma, he argues that we are obligated to desecrate Shabbos to save the life of a non-Jew. We are obligated to support non-Jews with tzedakah, the same way we support Jews. Every time the Torah speaks of “brother” or “fellow” this includes all the moral and upstanding people of the world. While his conclusions are not normative, his viewpoint is taken into account in mainstream Halachic thought.
Taken together, this viewpoint has zero tolerance for referring to non-Jews as animals or even as ‘goyim,’ or for denigrating their behavior and beliefs.
I have a theory. I am not a historian, sociologist, or enough of a scholar to say this definitively, but it seems to me that Torah scholars who took a more accepting view of non-Jews lived in relative peace and comfort and those who took a more isolationist and even negative approach to non-Jews lived in a climate where they were in danger; danger of death by the local gentiles or the danger of assimilation.
This is most clearly illustrated in the thought of Rav Kook. I quoted above some of his extremely positive views on Christianity. But that’s not the full picture. A decade after writing how the nations of the world can have their own prophets and miracles, he takes a sharp turn. He goes on a sustained attack of Christianity. He describes it as Satan and Amaleik. Without getting into the details, at the time of his later writings, there was a strong cultural movement that was threatening Judaism, it was a movement that was causing countless Jews to scorn and walk away from the Torah. And so, Rav Kook picked up his pen and used it to distance Judaism in the strongest of terms from other faiths.1
If this theory is correct, it is abundantly clear what our position to non-Jews should be in 2026. Yes, antisemitism is on the rise in our own backyard. Yes, Israel is demonized by countries who recently were her greatest supporters. But in the bird’s eye-view of history, we have never been so secure. We are secure in our physical security, with a land and an army that evokes fear in the hearts of all her enemies, and we are secure in our spiritual strength; the observant community is bursting at the seams. Across this country and in Israel, the amount of Torah learned today is unprecedented in at least two thousand years. While weak people need to put down others to lift themselves up, a confident people have the strength to extend a hand and see the value of all those around them.
In this Torah-based worldview, violence towards others is abhorrent, denigrating other faiths is unnecessary, cutting up the kippah of a misguided Jew is foolish. Rather, and especially as we prepare to relive the experience of Mattan Torah, the charge of being a ‘kingdom of priests’ should fill us with confidence to know our special role and elevate the special roles of those around us.
I’ll conclude with the words of Rabbi Jonathan Sacks: “The multiplicity of faiths is not a tragedy, but the gift of G-d.” “Since mankind in its diversity cannot be reduced to a single faith or language, so G-d cannot be reduced to a single faith or language.” “The great challenge to religions in a global age is whether, at last, they can make space for one another, recognizing G-d’s image in someone who is not in my image.”
Our job as Jews is to lead the way.
1.For details, see Rabbi Sarel Rosenblatt’s excellent article on this topic in G-d Shall be One by Maggid Press.
by Ner Tamid | Apr 26, 2026 | Sermons
In a few days, Jacob and Helyn will be walking down the aisle to their chuppah. As they walk down that aisle, most of the people in attendance will likely stand up. Why?
It could be out of respect for two people who are talented and accomplished and are embarking on the most meaningful journey available to humankind. …
That could be the reason but I’m not actually sure.
The custom that many have to rise when the bride and groom walk down the aisle is shrouded in mystery. The few reasons that are suggested are frankly, quite weak, which leads many conclude that this is actually not a Jewish custom. Rav Moshe Feinstein, the most influential Halachic authority of the 20th century did not rise when a bride and groom walked down the aisle.
At some point in the wedding procession, Jacob’s grandmother will also walk down the aisle. Everyone will smile as she walks down the aisle – it’s so beautiful for a grandmother, especially one who has lived for almost a century to be in attendance at her grandson’s wedding, but I imagine most people will remain seated.
But by remaining seated, those in attendance are missing out in fulfilling a positive mitzvah; not a minhag, not a shminhag, but one of the 613 commandments, based on a verse in this week’s parsha – mipnei seivah takum, we are instructed to stand up for anyone who is considered old.
How old is old according to the Torah? Please don’t kill me – 70 years is old. According to Kabbalah, we are actually obligated to stand for anyone who is 60 years old. Meaning, any time you are seated and someone who is 70, or maybe even 60, walks by, if you are younger than that age, you are obligated to stand up.
In some societies, honoring those who are older is framed as self-serving. The great writer, Leo Tolstoy famously captured this message in his short story, the Wooden Bowl, in which a young boy watches as his father gets fed up with his own father whose frailty and shaking hands breaks numerous dishes. And so the boy’s father gives the old man a wooden bowl to eat out of. A few days later, the father sees the young boy making a wooden bowl of his own. The boy explains to his father that he’s making it for him – “Because one day, dad, you’ll be an old man and you’ll need his own wooden bowl.
In this depiction, honoring the elderly is simply a self-serving investment. I need to give my children an example of how they should treat me when I age.
Our Sages take a very different approach. Rashi, in this week’s parsha writes, and I quote: “What is deference? It is refraining from sitting in his place, and not interrupting his words.”
Rav Tzvi Hersh Weinreb explains this Rashi beautifully. “Not sitting in [an elderly person’s] seat means much more than just giving [an elderly man or woman] a seat on the bus. It means recognizing that the elderly person has his own seat, his own well-earned place in society, which you, the younger person, dare not usurp. It is more than just a gesture. It is an acknowledgement of the valued place the elder has in society, a place which is his and his alone.
Similarly, not interrupting the older person’s conversation is much more than an act of courtesy. It is awareness that this older person has something valuable to say, a message to which one must listen attentively.”
This past week there were two articles that caught my attention. One in the Atlantic and one in the New York Times describing something called the gerontocracy. I never even heard of that term before. Gerontocracy is defined as an organizational structure where power is held by leaders significantly older than the majority of the population and includes slower rates of political change and a concentration of wealth among the elderly.
The New York Times article, titled, Older Americans are Hoarding American’s Potential, proposes age limits for elected officials. I’m on board with that. But then he continues by suggesting that we mandate retirement across all sectors to make place for those who are younger. He argues for creating new tax codes which penalize elderly people for staying in their homes and not downsizing – the nerve of holding on to their one asset and not just handing it off to someone who never earned it. And forcing the elderly to distribute their hard-earned wealth so that us young ones could use it appropriately. That’s absurd.
The author of this article, Samuel Moyn, is the Chancellor Kent Professor of Law and History at Yale. And I find that scary. But also perfectly emblematic of an age-old problem; young people who think that old people are getting in their way.
Our parsha begins by alluding to the death of two young people, Nadav and Avihu. The Medrashim tell us that they were slated to be the next leaders of the Jewish People. They were, in one reading, greater than Moshe and Aharon. And yet, they die prematurely in some divine punishment. What was their sin? The Talmud in Sanhedrin quotes these two promising men, Nadav and Avihu, as saying the following: “Eimasai yomusu sh’nei zekeinim halalu? When will these two old men die?” – a reference to Moshe and Aharon – “Va’ani v’atah nanhig es hador, so that you and I will lead this generation.”
Yes, they were ‘with-it’ and maybe understood the culture of the people better than the elders. Yes, they were far more energetic, far more creative, and far more dynamic. But they failed to realize what they would be missing without Moshe and Aharon, two elders, at the helm. There is immense value in the conservative and slow nature of those who have lived long enough to make enough mistakes and have hopefully learned from them, who have seen no shortage of life-altering ideas with so much promise come and go and are now forgotten, who have a wealth of wisdom that no tax code can ever take away from them.
If we’re being honest with ourselves, we too identify with Nadav and Avihu. All the people in this room who bristled when I said sixty or seventy is old, why was it so uncomfortable to hear that? Why do we have such a hard time being called old? In Judaism old is not an insult, it’s a compliment, it means you are worthy of respect! When I speak to leaders of shuls who are looking to strengthen their shul, all I hear about is the “future of the shul,” and “how can we get better programming for the young adults?” That’s all great. But what about the traditions of the shul? What about the legacy members of the shul who created the institution? Are they unimportant?
Thank G-d, I think we do pretty well with this at Ner Tamid, but it’s a constant balancing act.
In Judaism there are two currents that are always at play and in conflict. There are two moments that define our existence more than any others – Ma’amad Har Sinai, standing at Sinai, receiving the law, and another moment which have yet to experience – the Messianic Era, Yemos Hamashiach, a brilliant and rectified future.
From the perspective of Sinai, we are always regressing, we are always moving further and further away from the clarity of that moment when G-d spoke directly to man. We are moving further and further away from a true understanding of G-d’s will. And in that light, the past is holy, the past is pure, and we, so distant from that moment, are nobodies. In the words of our Sages, “If the earlier generations were like angels, we are like men, and if they are like men, we are like donkeys.” The elders, in this model, are to be revered, the past is to be enshrined, the youth ignored, any talk of a different future should be met with deep skepticism.
But from the perspective of Mashiach, from the perspective of the End of Days, that view is completely backward. From the Messianic perspective, we are progressing, closer and closer, higher and higher, to a time of peace, of moral perfection, of clarity. And in that light, the younger we are, the closer we are to the truth. The youth, in this model, those who are attuned to the changes in the wind, are the heroes, overriding the ignorance of the old.
We live in constant tension between the young and old, the past and future, as both have a place in the development of the world. But in the sum-total of Jewish literature, it would seem, that the heavy past carries more weight than the flighty future.
And so when the young and bride and groom walk down that aisle filled with dreams and aspirations, we smile and we applaud them. But when the elderly walk by, we stand and we listen. We acknowledge the weight of experience and wisdom that the elderly carry.
by Ner Tamid | Apr 19, 2026 | Sermons
My favorite part of every Bar Mitzvah is what takes place in my office a week or two before the Simcha. I meet with the Bar Mitzvah boy and his parents to discuss the upcoming weekend, what their plans are, how things are going, and then, I ask the parents, “Please tell me all about your child.” And I get to listen as parents list quality after quality of their young man. I watch as the child, who until this moment was slightly checked out, perks up, and listens as their traits are shared.
Leiby, your parents did not disappoint. Your father told me about your love for family, your social skills, and your deep connection to Yiddishkeit. Your mother described your sense of humor, your musical talents, and your sensitivity. Of course, these are traits you acquired from them, each in their own way, giving you a shining example of what it means to be a contributing, community-centered, Jewish adult.
But my favorite-favorite part was when I asked you what you want to be when you grow up. Most kids hem and haw at this point. But you thought about it, you hesitated for a second, and then you blurted out – “I am going to be an inventor. I am going to invent a solution for pollution.” On Friday morning I checked it out – the name Pollution Solution was once trademarked by a linen company but their trademark expired in 1993. If anyone wants to get a great Bar Mitzvah gift for Leiby, all yours.
But what I didn’t tell you at the time was that that I had the same dream when I was around your age. That’s right. You see, there was a very popular television show when I was growing up called… Captain Planet. It told the story of these five kids who each had their own superpower, and “With the five powers combined they summon Earth’s greatest champion… CAPTAIN PLANET!”
Horrible graphics, plotlines that could have been written by a second grader, but for some reason it captured my imagination.
Admittedly, a lot has changed since then. Singlehandedly, over Pesach I threw out enough plastic plates and tin foil pans to kill off an entire species.
But as I told you, Leiby, in my office, pollution is actually the perfect metaphor for something that is found in our parsha that I have always struggled to explain. TUMAH. Tumah is translated as impurity but that really doesn’t capture its essence.
Tumah, Rav Yehuda Halevi explains, is rooted in death. But that doesn’t seem to match up with our day-to-day experience. One behavior that generates tumah, the tumah of tzo’ra’as is lashon hara, gossiping. I don’t know about you, but if I am being honest, I feel energized when I hear a juicy piece of gossip.
Don’t give me that look. This is biology. When listening to gossip, our brain gets a shot of dopamine, the ‘feel-good’ chemical that we all enjoy.
The question is why. Why does it feel so good to hear something scandalous when we know that it’s so wrong?
Rav Shlomo Freifeld has a brilliant take on Lashon Hara. He makes the following observation: If I were to tell you that in Raleigh, North Carolina, some dude named Bob did something wrong. Would you care? Not really.
But if I told you that it was someone who lives on this block, who is in this room, someone you know well, did something wrong, all of a sudden we get excited. Why is that?
Rabbi Freifeld explains that tragically most of us assess our self-worth relative to the people we know. We plot ourselves on a continuum with all the people we know. Am I a kind person? Well, let’s look around. If this friend is rude to everyone she talks to and this friend runs from chesed opportunity to chesed opportunity, and I, am sometimes rude and sometime engage in chesed, well then I suppose I am a moderately kind person.
But let’s say I find out that Mrs. Chesed-Chaser also is terribly mean to her children, guess what happens? Now she has gone down a few notches, which means that I am now a better person relative to the people I know.
This is why we don’t care if Bob from Raleigh is up to no good. He doesn’t affect my standing. This is also why the best type of gossip, the one that causes a massive flow of dopamine, is gossip about people who are supposed to be upstanding. Because when they go down, I go up. (Not in the Michelle Obama way. You know what I mean.)
The more gossip I speak, the more Lashon Hara I listen to, the less in touch I am with who I am and who I am meant to be. I completely lose sight of my own potential; I forget that my worth is intrinsic and that I will only be judged based on who and what I can be. What greater form of death can there be then living and breathing while being completely divorced from my own self-worth. Mi ha’ish hechafetz chaim? Who wants life? Who wants to really be connected to themselves and not live in a self-imposed delusion? Someone who abstains from gossip.
And this is where the Tumah-pollution analogy kicks in. Because in the short term, pollution is meaningless. It’s just one plastic plate. It’s just one puff of smoke. It’s just one factory. But it adds up. The smokers’ lungs eventually collapse, the inner harbor is eventually toxic, and the air in China, for example, is the direct cause of 2 million deaths a year. In the short term, if I know the hock, I am popular. If I know the latest community news, people gravitate to me, and as I put others down, I get lifted up. But in the longer term, it’s death. Who am I? I have no clue. I am so caught up in everyone else’s news, moving up and down on the superficial scale of relative worth, my own identity is buried in the rubble.
Mi ha’ish hachafetz chaim? If you want life, if you want your own life, stay away from gossip.
***
The fight against pollution has not been all that successful. TV shows like Captain Planet were successful in creating greater awareness, there have been some controversial pieces of legislation that have moved the needle, local efforts to encourage recycling have been a bit of a joke, for the most part, it’s not working.
The same could be said about the modern fight against Lashon Hara. Kickstarted by the Chafetz Chaim about a hundred years ago, it has also seen some success; learning the laws of Lashon Hara has become in vogue, setting aside time every day not to speak Lashon Hara is trendy. But like the fight against pollution, we’re just not there yet. If I were to tell you that I am going to now share with you a juicy piece of Lashon Hara no one would budge. (Should I?) If anything, the gossip industry is getting so much worse. What was once whispered between two friends is now posted publicly for posterity. Society-at-large has become a cesspool of takedowns and criticisms.
But the solution I believe is right in front of our eyes.
That famous passuk that describes Lashon Hara is well-known. Mi ha’ish hechafetz chaim? Who wants life?
N’tzor l’shoncha mei’ra. Restrain your lips from speaking evil. That we all know. But we forget that Dovid Hamelech has more to say. Sur mei’ra, stay away from evil. And this is the part people forget – Va’aseh tov, do good. Bakeish shalom v’radfeihu. Seek out peace and pursue it.
The best way to combat speaking lashon hara is not only to stop speaking negatively, it’s to speak positively, it’s to compliment, it’s to seek out opportunities to share kind words. And it’s magical.
“Leiby, you rocked your leining.”
“Jeff and Ayala Pensak, thank you for putting together this kiddush!”
“Jay, thank you for keeping me company!”
“Cerrill, I love your new glasses! Where’d you get them?”
“Thank you everyone for laughing at my silly jokes.”
Leiby, how did it feel when I complimented you? It felt good, right? But you know who else felt good? I did. Because when we speak positively about other people it demands confidence, it demands of us to stop judging ourselves based on others and to just lift them up. When we compliment people it gives us life. It trains us to connect to our true selves. Using our mouths for good is the greatest antidote to the death-inducing-tumah that is brought on by gossip.
And this is where you come in Leiby. One of the most beautiful traits that you learned from your parents is your kindness. And you express that kindness regularly by complimenting your friends, by sharing with them a word of comfort when they’re going through a difficult time. I don’t know if you’ll ever come up with a solution for physical pollution, but you’ve already made a real dent in the spiritual and verbal pollution that we are surrounded by.
Imagine a world where we all learn from Leiby. If instead of, or in addition to committing to not speaking Lashon Hara for an hour a day, we commit to complimenting one person each day. If when we go to kiddush today we compliment someone. If when we go home, we notice how a child or spouse did something nice and we let them know that we saw it. If in our next conversation with a colleague or friend, we seek out a way to praise them. Imagine how pure our world would be.
We don’t need Captain Planet. We need more Leiby’s. We need more positive speech to overcome the toxic pollution of Lashon Hara.
by Ner Tamid | Apr 10, 2026 | Sermons
I did it. I went to Seven Mile this year three days before Pesach. I had to buy four items – my wife would never ever ever trust me with an entire list of groceries. I avoided eye contact with the people I knew – I was on a mission (I’m sorry). I learned that the sun-dried tomatoes were not in the vegetable section. For some reason, I am pretty sure Seven Mile chooses the narrowest aisles to make into Pesach aisles. Right? You could barely squeeze two shopping carts in the aisle AND the Seven Mile worker decides that this would be a perfect time to start stocking the spices with a huge box and ladder.
By the time I was done, I was filled with gratitude to Hindy for doing this every other day of the year. To all of you grocery shoppers, especially for Pesach, you all deserve a round of applause.
Then, I tried to pull out of that parking lot. Wow. That parking lot was not made for fifteen-seater vans and hundreds of transplants from New York.
As I pulled out, I peeked at my receipt. And then I thought it might actually be a good idea to get my car hit by one those crazy drivers so I could have the money to pay for my shopping bill.
In short, it was stressful.
Later that day, I read a Facebook post from Shira Sheps, a woman who lives in Beit Shemesh. She too was shopping Erev Pesach. She was in line, ready to pay, when the sirens went off. Instead of pushing her way through a narrow Pesach aisle, she filed into a tiny room with 75 other people. Instead of navigating a parking lot with blaring horns, she stood, shoulder to shoulder, in a room filled with babies who were somehow not screaming. Though she didn’t mention it, the prices of her food were exponentially more expensive than mine, as grocery costs have sky-rocketed in Israel due to the war.
I’m embarrassed to say that in all my busy-ness in the lead-up to Pesach, I didn’t really think about what was going on in Israel. Yes, I woke up every morning to check the news. But I was reading about the bombs, about Iran, about the IDF. I wasn’t thinking about Shira and the millions like her. I wasn’t thinking about the thousands who have loved ones who could not be with them for Seder because they are on Miluim. I wasn’t thinking about the Seders that were interrupted constantly. Or the Seders in Israel that would be terribly lonely because a loved one’s seat will remain empty forever.
***
It’s Yizkor today, a time dedicated to remembering our loved ones. But sometimes I wonder, and I apologize if what I am about to say is insensitive – do we really need a day to remember a parent, a spouse, a child? Those who have experienced loss live with that loss daily. There is nothing that does not evoke a memory of a mother or father, of a spouse, a child or a sibling who is no longer with us. But there are others who we too easily forget.
Maybe it’s someone who sits in our row in shul but hasn’t been there in a few weeks. Maybe it’s a friend who is going through a hard time who would probably appreciate a call. And maybe it’s our family and friends in Israel, who are wondering if perhaps we have forgotten them.
***
One of the most haunting scenes in Eli Wiesel’s memoir, Night, takes place on a cattle car. He and his fellow inmates were on the death march, they were broken and starving. A soldier threw them a few scraps of bread, which were immediately pounced upon. Two people grabbed the same piece of bread and started fighting over it. One of them was a little stronger than the other – a tiny bit more flesh on his skeleton, and he started beating the other man viciously. When the other prisoners finally pulled them apart, they realized that it was a son beating his father.
Starvation saps the humanity out of us. Even those of us who are not starving, in times of distress, we easily forget about those around us.
***
Two weeks ago, I received a message from a friend in Israel:
“Hi,
I hope you’re doing well… Some of us here in Israel are sensing a certain amount of “Israel fatigue” compared to after October 7th. [We’re not hearing] from friends abroad or [seeing any] social media posts. I’m wondering if you have any thoughts?”
The only thought I had was, wow, how embarrassing.
Fatigue was a very generous assumption. If I’m being honest, in the hustle and bustle of pre-Pesach life, I simply forgot.
That man who texted me is not alone in feeling abandoned by American Jews; I have heard this sentiment numerous times from Israelis. “While you are making your Pesach plans around Kosher for Pesach food, we are making our Pesach plans around bomb shelters.” Or “We are living in two different worlds.” Or “You cannot possibly understand what we’re going through.” Israeli Jews have started describing Diaspora Judaism as a different form of Judaism.
That’s wrong, we are one people, and we always will be. But there is also some justice to their critique.
Maybe I cannot donate anymore to Israeli causes, that’s fair. But have I really spent time thinking about how difficult it must have been these past four weeks, preparing for Pesach with houses full of children, as missiles rained down? Have I spent any time this past month thinking about ways I can help?
***
We’ve been learning about the life and works of Rabbi Yissachar Shlomo Teichtal over Pesach. As I read about his life, I thought of the Elie Wiesel story. In the final section of his book, Eim Habanim Semeicha, a book that is ostensibly about building up the land of Israel, he shifts gears and starts talking about unity. He argues that the main reason building Israel is so important is because it’s a project that can bring all Jews together, and togetherness, unity, true care for a fellow Jew, is the most important value of all.
That is the final message of his book, and also the final message of his life. He too was on a train in occupied Europe, this one on the way to the Mathausen concentration camp. The German soldiers also played their sick games with him and the other Jews crammed into a cattle car. They threw some crusts into the car; one was grabbed by an old Jew. There was a Ukrainian prisoner in the same car, and he snatched the crust from the Jew. Rabbi Teichtal witnessed this and calmly walked over to the Ukrainian and demanded that he return the crust. The Ukrainian laughed at him. The Jews in the car who knew Rabbi Teichtal begged him to leave it alone. But he replied: “How can I stand by when the man’s life depends on this food?” He tried again to retrieve the crust, but this time the Ukrainian started beating Rabbi Teichtal. A Nazi officer stepped in and helped the Ukrainian. Rav Teichtal died with Echad on his lips, the oneness of the Jewish People.
***
We are all on a train together and we all face the same choice. Which of those two stories is ours?
Will we get swept up in our own stressors? Will we ignore the cries of our brothers and sisters in Israel? Will we go on our exotic vacations, sleep undisturbed through the night, and allow the bond between us to wither away?
Or will we feel their pain? Will we stand up for them? Will we do whatever we can to support them?
There is so much more to do, and I hope you can help me come up with ideas of how we can best give them strength. But at the very least, let’s let them know we care.
This Yizkor, let’s not only remember those who passed, let’s remember the living who need our attention. Let’s remember Elliot Heller, a young man who grew up in our shul who spent Pesach in Gaza eating out of cans. Let’s remember the tens of families who made Aliyah from our shul who spent Seder night running to and from their bomb shelters. Let’s remember Hodaya Harush and her kids whose husband’s picture we walk by every Shabbos in shul – I am sure she, who sat with no one at the head of her seder table, would appreciate being remembered. Let’s not just remember them; let’s send them messages after Yom Tov, wishing them a good Shabbos, thanking them for being in Israel on our behalf, letting them know we care.
I have spent the past week talking about Israel and making Aliyah. It is a beautiful Mitzvah to live in Israel, but it’s also not for everyone. But unity, true care and connection with one another, that is something we are all obligated in. As Rav Teichtal observes, when faced with the decision of staying in Israel or reuniting his family in Egypt, Yaakov Avinu was told that unity is more important; keep the family together.
At 120, we will not be asked why we did not reach out to say hello to a Charedi we never met or a secular Jew in Tel Aviv we never crossed paths with. But we will be asked why we did not remember those we know, those whose phone numbers are in our phones. Those people are in our train, and right now, they need us.
We cannot allow the divide of the ocean or differing life circumstances divide us any further. Let’s remind them and remind ourselves that we are one. And in that merit, may G-d bring us all to Israel speedily in our days.
by Ner Tamid | Apr 6, 2026 | Sermons
I’d like to tell you about a man whose name many of you likely never heard, whose influence was quite limited, but whose life story is exceptionally relevant in April of 2026. Rabbi Yissachar Shlomo Teichtal was born in Hungary in 1885. He studied in Pressburg, today is known as Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia, in the same yeshiva my grandfather learned. His early years followed the typical trajectory of a bright and precocious young man.
In the introduction to a widely acclaimed book that he wrote on Halacha, Mishnas Sachir, he relates the following episode from his youth. He woke up one morning hungry and asked his mother for something to eat. She was baking but the food was not yet ready and instead his mother gave him advice, which he said, stuck with him his entire life: “I will give you advice,” she said, “to quiet your hunger: Know, my son, that the holy Gemara has the effect of quieting hunger and satisfies living beings just like bread. Take you Gemara and review what you studied this week, and you will be full. You will not feel any hunger. On the contrary, you will taste honey sweeter than from the comb, a taste even sweeter than the cake.”
His mother’s loving message guided him as he developed into a true Torah scholar. At the age of 36 he was appointed the head of the Beis Din of Pishtian. It was a wealthy city in Czechoslovakia, known for its mineral baths and it attracted an endless stream of visiting rabbis with whom developed deep relationships. Three years later he published Mishnas Sachir, a book of Halachic responsa that was widely-acclaimed. He was living the Rabbinic dream.
A year later Rabbi Teichtal published a book of his sermons. Many of the sermons were directed against Orthodox Jews who were Zionists. This was not surprising. Anti-Zionism was a given among the leading Orthodox rabbis of the time.
Rav Yosef Ber Soloveitchik, the namesake of the Rav Soloveitchik that we all know, described Zionism as the false Messiah of their times. The Chofetz Chaim stated that the fate of Jews was to remain in exile until the coming of Mashiach; to emigrate to Israel early was a denial of Mashiach.
There was more than just theological arguments, there was a practical reason many rabbis opposed Zionism. The vast majority of those leading the Zionist movement were anti-religious. Ben Gurion described his vision of a new Jew who was devoid of any connection to religion. To him, and to many others, religion kept the Jewish People intact in exile, but now that a homeland was available to them they could maintain Jewish Peoplehood simply by living in the land.
Additionally, there was political concerns. Many Jews, regardless of their faith, were concerned that this nationalist movement would cause their host countries to see them as unpatriotic and they feared that Zionism would cause them to lose their newly acquired rights as full-fledged citizens. The first Zionist congress was supposed to take place in Munich but the local Jewish population was so scared of the political impact that Herzl was forced to move the congress to Switzerland.
Rabbi Teichtal was a devoted follower of the Rebbe of Munkacz, one of the fiercest anti-Zionists of the time.
In 1938, the Nazis invaded Czechoslovakia. Rabbi Teichtal was given an opportunity to escape but he refused to do so as there were people there who needed his support. As the Nazis got closer, he and a number of others hid in the attic of the local Bais Medrash where they miraculously went undetected. He relates how he watched through the cracks in the walls how the Jews were gathered up and deported. He watched in horror as many Jews were killed on the spot.
While he remained in hiding, he had plenty of time to think and he started wondering why. Why was G-d allowing for these terrible atrocities to take place? His community was a devout one, they dedicated their lives to Torah and Mitzvos. They were generous with the poor; they were good people. Why would G-d bring such a terrible fate upon the Jews?
And in that attic, he underwent a transformation. Drawing on his encyclopedic knowledge of Torah that he memorized he started reviewing sources that described why bad things happen to the Jewish People. And he came to a conclusion that I am sure shook him to the core; they should not have been living in Europe. G-d had given them the ‘medicine before the affliction,’ He had given them the opportunity to come back home, to return to their Promised Land, and they rejected that gift. (To be very clear, his view was not, as some mistakenly attribute to him, that the Holocaust took place because they did not live there – he couldn’t begin to fathom why the Holocaust took place. But) he believed that G-d had given them an opportunity to escape the inferno of the Nazis and they simply ignored this Divine present.
In that attic he started writing his ideas on scraps of paper, scraps of paper that became his most prized possession.
In 1942, he escaped to Budapest, which was still safe from the Nazis. Being that he was held in such high esteem, he was invited to give lectures in the community, which he did. The theme that he spoke of was this one – we rejected G-d’s gift; we should be in Israel. Unfortunately, no one listened. Worse, they mocked him. They assumed that he had a nervous breakdown in that attic; what he saw must have caused him to snap. But that didn’t stop him. With the war raging all around him he went about to publish a book, titled, Eim Habanim Semeicha, in which he outlined his newfound philosophy of Zionism.
Pesach is known in Kabbalistic literature as the holiday of faith. Through the ten plagues, the Jews in Egypt were given a masterclass on G-d’s existence and power. It is meant to be a time during which we strengthen our faith. The way we do that is by asking hard questions about what we do and why.
In the Pesach story, the Jewish People’s newfound faith is contrasted with the stubbornness of Pharaoh. No matter what he saw and experienced, he refused to change his way of thinking. The Torah describes his stubbornness as a ‘heavy heart.’ Historians point out how meaningful that term was in Egyptian culture. In the ancient world, when an Egyptian would die, they would put his heart on a scale. On one side was the deceased’s heart and on the other was a feather. If the heart was heavier than the feather, the individual was depicted as evil. So when G-d describes Pharaoh’s heart as heavy, He was conveying a message. You know what evil is? Evil is the inability to change your mind.
We are all brought up with ideas shaped by our parents and society; we can’t be blamed for having certain ideas in our youth. But when we face challenges, when we encounter experiences that are out of the ordinary, and we don’t reexamine our beliefs, that is evil. וַיַּכְבֵּד פַּרְעֹה אֶת־לִבּוֹ גַּם בַּפַּעַם הַזֹּאת Even after seeing the miracles of the plagues, Pharoah did not change, he hardened his heart, that is the definition of evil.
And that begs the question. I imagine everyone in this room considers themselves to be a Zionist. We believe in the value of a Jewish homeland and we support in many ways. But we are living through incredible times; times of upheaval but also times of incredible miracles. Are we reexamining our beliefs? Are we really justified in living in Baltimore? Are the excuses that were perhaps valid in the past still valid today? As more and more Jews make Aliyah, as living in Israel is getting easier and easier, as the people of Israel are experiencing daily miracles while we read them in the news, is it time to challenge our beliefs? Or are we simply walking in the footsteps of Pharoah?
Rabbi Teichtal writes the following in the early pages of his book:
I must confess the truth and declare my sin. I, too, despised the rebuilding of the Land, because I heard unqualified statements made by many Orthodox Jews, which became firmly implanted in my heart. I did not concern myself with this matter at all, because I was preoccupied with learning, teaching, and writing volumes on the Talmud and its commentaries, as well as responses to questions regarding the word of HaShem. I only delved into this halachah after we suffered afflictions in this bitter exile. HaShem enlightened me, and I saw that I and all those who opposed this movement were mistaken. I admit and say, “That which I previously told you was mistaken.” … Thank God, I have no qualms about publicly expressing the truth that is in my heart. I am not afraid of any man… I will not revoke my Torah opinion because of any gadol or rebbe or our generation, unless he debates the issues with me in the manner of Torah dialogue, using proofs from the words of Chazal. I will then concede to his words, if they are correct, but not if they are unfounded. (Em ha-Banim Semekha, p. 28 in the M. Lichtman translation).” This is the legacy of Rabbi Teichtal – the ability to ask tough questions, the strength to overcome our naturally hard hearts.
Over Pesach, in the evenings, I will be teaching selected pieces of Eim Habanim Semeicha, to give us some food for thought, to encourage us and to encourage me personally to look in the mirror and to make sure I do not have a hard heart.
There are no simple answers to these questions. I do not believe that everyone should or could make Aliyah. But if there is any holiday, in any era, in which we should be asking these tough questions, it is this one.
