by Ner Tamid | Jun 8, 2025 | Sermons
Imagine if on Tuesday, Elon Musk picked up the phone and said, “Hey Donald, we need to talk.” Or, if he thought that would go nowhere, instead of publicly posting his displeasure on social media, he made a few calls to key congressmen and senators and explained to them why he thought the Big, Beautiful Bill was not that beautiful.
Imagine if on Thursday, President Trump would have stuck to the script of a boring meeting with the German Chancellor, and spoke about Germany, or Russia, or anything other than Musk. Or, if he had to say something, instead of saying, “Elon and I had a great relationship, I don’t know if we will anymore,” he instead said, “Elon and I had a great relationship, and I hope we can work this out.”
Imagine if a little later that day, instead of starting a dispute about how crucial Musk was or was not for Trump’s election, they both would have stayed focused on what they were actually arguing about, the bill, and not bring the past into this debate.
Imagine if Musk would not have sent out a poll about the need for a third political party and in doing so inviting others to join him in his anti-Trump crusade.
Imagine if Trump would not have shared more dirty laundry, letting the world know that he had kicked Musk out of the administration.
Imagine if Trump did not call Musk crazy, and Musk did not call for Trump’s impeachment.
Imagine if Trump and Musk would have stopped at any point in this feud and had a conversation.
But none of that happened.
Instead, astronauts in the International Space Station had to panic that they were going to be stranded in space, Tesla’s stocks dropped even further, Trump likely lost 100 million dollars’ worth of campaign contributions, Musk will likely be investigated for drug use while part of the administration, and Trump’s bill is now even less likely to pass.
And lest you say, the only losers are Republicans, that’s not true. The country as a whole is once again a laughingstock to the rest of the world, which undermines our power and security. And, public discourse has hit an all-time low.
We have all come out as losers.
Rashi in Parshas Korach comments that “Beis Din, Jewish courts, only punish adults, but machlokes, disputes, even punish little babies.” Arguments are described by our sages as an all-consuming fire. It starts off small and contained, but before you know it, it is completely out of control.
As extreme and comical as this Musk-Trump feud may sound, it’s a story that we are all too familiar with. A husband and wife start fighting about why someone didn’t load the dishwasher and before they know it, they are in a two-week spat in which no kind words are shared between them. A son feels like his father didn’t respect him and so he stops taking his father’s calls. Two siblings can’t agree on how to take care of their aging parents and years later don’t sit shiva together. A friendship is lost over a careless remark and decades of connection are forgotten about and erased from memory.
Nobody wins. Everybody loses. And it’s not just those who are fighting, but everyone around them. Whose side are you on? How could you talk to my ex? How could you say something nice about my sister after what she did to me?
“Beis Din only punishes adults, but machlokes punishes little babies.”
Most often what gets in the way is our ego. “They’re wrong, I’m right, why should I make the first move?” “They’re wrong, I’m right, why should I be the one to apologize?” “They’re wrong, I’m right, and I am not willing to move on until they acknowledge it.”
Our parsha contains one of the most misunderstood Mitzvos in the Torah, the parsha of the Sotah. It’s often framed as a misogynistic attack on women. The alleged female adulterer is paraded for all to see and is punished in a most violent and public fashion. But our Sages in the Talmud take a very different view.
For starters, they pick up on the nuances of the Torah’s text that begin the story by highlighting the inflexibility of the husband. “Ish, ish” by being overly manly, by being so domineering and not being open to the needs and view of his spouse, the Torah takes him to task for pushing his wife to look for connection outside the marriage.
What follows is an escalation where the wife engages in behavior that leads the husband to suspect his wife. It then escalates further when he includes others by warning his wife in front of two witnesses to not seclude herself with her suspected adulterer. She then goes ahead and secludes herself with said suspected adulterer with two witnesses having seen them go behind closed doors. At this point, most marriages would be over. How could they ever trust one another again? How could they ever reconcile after so much distance and distrust?
Enter the Sotah waters. G-d creates a supernatural test to clarify what happened behind closed doors. If she is innocent nothing happens to her, if she is guilty, she suffers a gruesome death. But the objective of the waters is not to punish the wife. If the suspected wife chooses, she could just say, no, I will not drink the water, this marriage is over. She is not compelled to drink the water and take this test. More than that, the Talmud tells us that when adultery was rampant, the sages abolished this entire ritual. And that’s because it was never about punishment.
So what then is the goal of these waters? Explain our Sages, it is to bring peace between husband and wife. The objective is to prove her innocence, to teach us that there is always hope, that haters can become lovers, that no matter how many years of pain and silent treatments and disgust exist between two parties, shalom, peace, is possible. The hope is that she drinks these waters and nothing happens, and in doing so, this paves the way for the husband and wife to reconcile.
G-d conveys this message in the most powerful way. The third commandment is not to use G-d’s name in vain. Jews are hyper-sensitive to writing G-d’s name on a piece of paper because it might end up in the trash, there are no shortage of laws that reflect the reverence we must give G-d. And G-d says, “Take my name, that really holy name, Yud, hey, and vuv, hey, and erase it in the waters that you will give to the Sotah.”
What Hashem is trying to tell us is that His dignity is worth negating if it means bringing peace between two parties. If His dignity is worth negating, what does that tell us about ours? Parshas Sotah is G-d’s way of telling us to get over ourselves, to stop waiting for the other party, to stop standing on principle, to stop holding back just because you might be right.
The Chofetz Chaim related a story that took place in the late 19th century. Two men in a Jewish community got in a fight. One of the men was wealthy and used his wealth to help Jewish boys avoid the Czarist draft. Back then, being conscripted to the army was a death sentence for Jewish boys. His disputant, we’ll call him Reuven, threatened to go to the authorities and let them know that this leader had used his influence illegally. The only problem was that Reuven’s son was saved from the draft thanks to the efforts of this leader. Reuven’s wife turned to him, “Are you crazy? If they go after this guy, that means that our son will be conscripted to the army?!”
Reuven’s response was, “I don’t care.”
We may be right, we may be owed an apology, we may have every justification in the world. Donald Trump and Elon Musk would tell you how it’s important to double down because that’s how you show how strong you are. But they’re wrong. They are destroying themselves and everyone around them.
Making ourselves vulnerable is not a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of G-dliness. Apologizing, breaking the silence, taking the first step forward, getting over our dignity, “erasing our name,” these are signs of greatness.
גדול השלום”
Great is peace,
ששם הקדוש ברוך הוא ימחה על המים להטיל שלום בין איש לאשתו
for the Name of the Holy One Blessed be He, is erased to bring peace between husband and wife.”
by Ner Tamid | Jun 4, 2025 | Sermons
In the early 18th century, there was a fabulously wealthy and powerful Polish family known as the Potocki’s. Count Potocki and his wife were devout Jesuits and used their wealth to support churches all over the continent. They had one son, Valentin; he was bright, handsome, and curious, he had everything going for him. His parents, the religious people that they were, had high hopes that he would one day join the Jesuit order as a priest.
Valentin was sent to Paris where he studied under the greatest Christian teachers. In Paris, he once happened to visit a tavern owned by a Jew. The details are murky, but what we do know is that Valentin was impressed with this tavern-owner, something about him sparked his curiosity. This encounter inspired Valentin to start learning Torah, and after about six months of secretly learning Torah from a Parisian rabbi, Valentin came to the conclusion that he could not in good conscience become a priest. Instead, he wanted to convert to Judaism.
Despite this Parisian rabbi discouraging him from converting – doing so was a capital crime and one which would also endanger the Jewish community, Valentin disguised himself so that his family would not know what happened to him, traveled to Amsterdam, a country in which there were religious freedoms, and converted.
For reasons unknown to us, Valentin, who at this point was renamed Avraham ben Avraham, chose to move back to Poland. We could surmise that one of the things that drew him back to Poland was that the greatest Jewish sage, the Vilna Goan, was living there. The two of them, the towering leader of the Jewish world, and this recent convert met, and the Vilna Gaon walked away from the meeting immensely impressed by the dedication and devotion of Avraham ben Avraham.
Tragically, Avraham ben Avraham’s life was cut short. A Jew informed on him to the authorities. He was first given the chance to ‘repent,’ as the Christian authorities offered him the opportunity to renounce his Judaism, but he refused. His wealthy and powerful family managed to get the church to agree that if Valentin would live his life in a castle on one of their estates, away from the public eye, he’d able to practice Judaism in private and be spared. He refused.
Valentin Pototzky, Avraham ben Avraham, was burned at the stake on the second day of Shavuos, today. For two hundred years, until the Holocaust, a Keil Malei, a memorial prayer, was said for him, in all the shuls of Vilna. And to this day, in shul around the world, including this one, people still tell his story.
This past September I had the privilege of visiting the grave of the Vilna Gaon. There is a sign over the structure of his grave, ‘Here lies the great Vilna Gaon, and here, in the same structure, lies the ashes of Avraham ben Avraham.’ Side by side. This was done with the Vilna Gaon’s directions. It was his way of saying, “Avraham ben Avraham, you may have lived a short life, you may have died without children, historically, you did not have had the same impact as I did. But your life made a difference.”
It’s a fascinating tale of the intellectual honesty of Avraham ben Avraham and the honor and respect given to him by the Vilna Gaon, but there is one person in this story who does not get enough credit and that is the tavern-owner in Paris. We don’t know what he said to Valentin, we don’t know what Valentin saw, but this tavern-owner clearly made a powerful impression. Perhaps he kindly greeted Valetin at the door, looked him in the eyes, and gave him attention like he never received before. Perhaps he saw this old man pull out an old book to study from in between customers. Perhaps he saw how ethical he was in his monetary dealings. What we do know is that this man lived in a way that inspired good, positive, and uplifting change, in those who saw him. And in turn that person’s actions inspired change in all who learned his story.
Today, we read the Book of Ruth. We read this beautiful story today on Shavuos because Ruth exemplifies a deep commitment to Judaism and because Ruth is a convert and we too all converted to Judaism and committed ourselves to G-d at Har Sinai on this very day. But the real heroine of the story is Naami, Ruth’s mother-in-law, and not Ruth. Because you see Ruth did not convert due to any intellectual exercise; she wasn’t a philosopher or a scholar. What drew her to Judaism was her mother-in-law, a person whose name exemplified her character, Naami, from the word neimut, pleasantness, sweetness. Ruth, having witnessed this pleasantness up close for all these years, recognized that Naami possessed something that she did not possess, the Torah. Derache’ha darchei noam, its ways are pleasant, v’chol n’sivoseha shalom, and all its pathways are peace. And Ruth wanted a piece of it.
Listen to the celebrated, poetic words of Ruth, “Where you go, I go,” she says to Naami. “Where you live, I will live, your people, Naami, are my people.” And only then Ruth ultimately says, “Your G-d is my G-d.”
And the amazing thing is that Naami wasn’t perfect. Far from it. She, with her husband, deserted the Jewish People at a time of need during a time of famine. Her sons both intermarried. She describes herself as bitter! And perhaps that’s exactly it. Naami’s greatness perhaps lies in her ability to overcome. To hold her head up high despite the losses she endures. To be loving despite the scorn she receives from others. To hold onto her faith despite her many mistakes. Naami is so pleasant that Ruth cannot imagine a life without her and the value system that Naami is drawing from. (Rabbi Moshe Miller, Rising Moon)
Yizkor is a day not only to remember others, it’s a day to ask ourselves, how we will we be remembered? How are we remembered right now by those around us? Do they see us, do they interact with us, and come away uplifted? Do they wonder what value system is this man or woman drawing from? What magic formula do they have because I want a piece of it? Or do they simply walk on by?
There is an incredibly troubling increase in anti-Semitism these days. Can we take an ounce of the energy we are using yelling and screaming at the anti-Semites and turn it inwards; how are we contributing to a positive version of Judaism? How are we creating a different narrative? Are we a Naami, are we such a pleasant person that when someone meets us, they are so taken that they want to throw away everything they have away to be close to us and our Torah? Are we that Parisian merchant who a future priest can meet and be inspired to give up a life of riches and prestige?
That’s what today is all about. That’s what Shavuos is. It is a day to reflect upon the mission of every Jew, which is that every person who sees us, who speaks to us, who interacts with us at work or at home, or anywhere, would say, Mi k’amcha Yisrael, who is like you among the nations!
A few years ago, a man by the name Levi Welton visited his parents in Sacramento, California. Levi and his wife were living on the East Coast, but his parents just moved to a new community and he decided to visit them for a weekend. Shabbos morning, he went with his father to the shul in their new community and after davening there was a kiddush in honor of a Bat Mitzvha. He decided on a whim to strike up a conversation with the father of the Bat Mitzvah girl, who introduces himself as Chaim Valentzia.
In the course of the conversation, he learned that Chaim was a convert. And so Levi asked him, how did you pick the name Chaim? Most of us are given names at birth by our parents, but a convert has the incredible privilege to name themselves, and Levi was curious how Chaim Valentzia chose his name.
Chaim told him the following story. “I know this going to sound strange but a number of years ago, I was living on the East Coast. I was interested in Judaism, I was studying and exploring what it’s all about. One Friday night, I ended up at the Lincoln Park Jewish Center in Westchester, New York. During services, at the end of L’cha Dodi, the congregants started to dance and so I joined them. And I found myself,” said Chaim, “between the rabbi and an old man. He wasn’t just any old man, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. He was dancing with such joy, with such purity, with such evident faith, I was smitten.”
“And then, and then I noticed the numbers on his arm. A survivor. A survivor of the Holocaust to have such faith, such joy….! I turned to this old man,” said Chaim,” and I asked him, what’s your name? And he told me his name was Chaim. And I knew right then, that if I convert this would be the name that I would live by, this is the man who I will always look up to. I will perpetuate his greatness.”
Levi, who was listening intently, turned to Chaim, and said, “Tell me, is his name Chaim Grossman?”
Chaim’s eyes popped out, “How did you know?!”
And Levi explained, “I am now the rabbi of Lincoln Park Jewish Center, I know Chaim, or should I say, I knew Chaim very well. But what you don’t know,” Levi added, “and you had no way of knowing is that Chaim – Chaim the survivor – never had any children. He had no one to name a child after him. And now Chaim’s legacy will not be lost. V’yikorei sh’mo b’Yisrael, you have his name, and one day, your great-grandchildren will be named after you, and this legacy, Chaim’s legacy, the life he lived, will be perpetuated for all of time.” (Rabbi Yoel Gold)
Whether you have children or not, whether you have family or you do not have family, we are all charged with one mission – to be memorable people; to never forget that we stand in the presence of G-d and that we represent Him to all who see us. To live an inspired life, and to be an inspiration. To live a devoted and loving life. To live a life that will not be easily forgotten. May we perpetuate the memories of those who came before us and may we, like Naami, like Avraham ben Avraham, like the tavern owner of Paris, and like Chaim the survivor, be worthy of being remembered.
by Ner Tamid | Jun 1, 2025 | Sermons
Back when I was newly married, I used to get my wife flowers every Friday. I’d get a ride with a friend from Ner Israel to what was then called Shopper’s and we’d both go and buy flowers for our spouses. He would walk in and do what I call, the no-look-flower-grab. As he’d be walking to the milk section, he would just stick his hand out and without breaking his stride, pick up whichever bouquet came up in his hand. Voila, he is done. He has just picked out flowers for his wife.
For me, on the other hand, it was not so simple. First, I had to make sure that the flowers were not dying. Then I would search for a bouquet with a nice array of colors. That narrows it down but then I had to figure out what color is appropriate. Is this week a red rose week or a white rose week? Should I be getting something springy to go with the weather? But it’s rainy this weekend, what’s the right color for a rainy weekend in the summer? And then if you’re a real pro, which I was, I had to remember which dishes were being served over Shabbos so that the flowers could be color coordinated, not only with the napkins but with the squash kugel. Needless to say, I’d spend at least twenty minutes choosing flowers for my wife.
Eventually, Hindy told me to stop buying her flowers. Both because we had no money, and because my friend kept on leaving me at Shopper’s because I took so long and this whole thing was a colossal waste of time.
I make one exception and that is Shavuos. For Shavuos, I go to Trader Joe’s, I elbow my way to the flower section through tens of Jewish women all doing the same. I typically pick out a bouquet, stand in line to pay, and then go running back to switch bouquets at least once, usually twice, and finally come home with a beautiful bouquet, only to find out that my wife made flowers with the Sisterhood on Thursday night…
Where does this minhag come from? Why do people buy flowers especially for Shavuos? And why do many shuls decorate the shul with flowers specifically on this Yom Tov?
As we’ll see, this may be the one holiday, I should not be buying flowers for, as there are those who argue that flowers on Shavuos is not only not a good custom but it is forbidden. So let’s jump in. (Sources from a wonderful shiur by Rabbi Dovid Gottlieb on YUTorah)
The earliest source that discusses this minhag is someone known as the Maharil, Rav Yaakov Moelin, a 15th century highly influential German scholar. He writes that there is a custom to put fragrant greenery, asavim, on the floors of the shul on Shavuos.
The most famous explanation is that Har Sinai was covered in grass and flowers. But how do we know this? There’s a beautiful depiction of Har Sinai that you can see in the new lobby – thank you to the Chernikoff family! – you’ll notice that the mountain is brown. Which makes sense as the Sinai desert is a… desert. Where does the idea that the mountain was covered in grass and flowers come from?
Rav Mordechai Yoffee, a 16th century scholar known as the Levush, directs us to a prohibition found in relation to the giving of the Torah. When the Jewish People arrived at the Sinai desert, G-d gave them a number of laws to prepare for the giving of the Torah. One of them was that it is forbidden for sheep to graze on the mountain. Sheep do not graze on sand. It must be, says the Levush, that the pictures my 5-year-old came home from school with, are correct, the mountain must have miraculously become covered with grass. There are other explanations, but this one is by far the most famous one.
But here’s where things get interesting. In the 17th century, a scholar known by his book, the Magen Avraham, records this minhag, but he does not talk about grass, he mentions trees. “It is the custom to place trees in one’s home and shul on Shavuos.” Now he wasn’t making this custom up, he was reporting on a widely-practiced custom.
Why trees? He explains that there is a Mishna in Rosh Hashana that tells us that although humans are judged on Rosh Hashana, trees are judged on… Shavuos. Says the Magen Avraham, we place trees in shuls to remind us to pray for a good crop.
Comes along the Vilna Gaon, probably the most influential rabbi to have lived in the last 600 years, and says, absolutely not. He acknowledges that is a real minhag, not a shminhag. But he makes it his business to ban this minhag. Why?
Though it’s not written so clearly, and that is because of Christian censorship, he (his students) writes that it is Biblically forbidden to maintain this minhag because, you know where this is going, because… There is a Christian custom of placing trees in their places of worship on their holiday and it is forbidden to have the same custom.
Which holiday?
Wrong.
Don’t tell my children, but let’s learn a little Christianity. There is a holiday that today is only celebrated by the Greek Orthodox Church called Pentecost. You’re not going to believe this but 49 days after Easter, sounds familiar yet – is when it takes place. It is the holiday that the Greek Orthodox Church believes that G-d came down to earth… It gets better. The first night of the celebration is observed by a vigil that takes place all night!
The Vilna Gaon, writing in the late 18th century, says, it does not matter if our custom came before theirs, the bottom line is it looks like we’re imitating them and it has to stop. There is some debate if he was only against trees or if he was opposed to all forms of greenery on this holiday (opinion of the Aruch Hashulchan). One way or another, nobody puts trees up in their shul on Shavuos; many have the minhag of placing flowers in shul and at home, and some say doing so is absolutely forbidden.
***
Those are the two classical reasons as to why we have flowers on Shavuos; to recall the miracle of the grassy Har Sinai or to remind us to pray for trees. Virtually no one puts up a tree, and some buy extra flowers and some buy no flowers at all.
I’d like to share with you one final thought on flowers and Shavuos:
As a teenager, I once wanted to thank my friend’s mother. Throughout all of our senior year of high school we spent a lot time in this home and made a whole lot of noise. I decided to buy her some flowers. She thanked me and told me that she never gets flowers from her husband. Before I could ask why, her husband, who was in the next room, went on a rant explaining to me how silly it was to buy flowers. To his credit, he would regularly buy his wife jewelry. But flowers, he pointed out, don’t last. It made no sense to him to invest in something that was going to die a few days later.
He was right, there is nothing you could do with flowers. They are useless, they serve no utilitarian purpose. And that’s what makes them so beautifully meaningful! Flowers convey a message of affection in its truest form. You could give someone some jewelry today, but a month later, does your spouse know that you still feel the same way?
Flowers have a short lifespan, but they represent a feeling, and like all feelings, it’s fleeting. The flowers eventually die, feelings eventually dissipate, and when they do, it’s time to go back to Trader Joe’s, it’s time to invest once again in the relationship.
In a loving relationship, it’s not enough to say, I bought you diamond a month ago, don’t you know I love you? I said I love you last week, do I really need to say it again? That doesn’t work. And that’s why the impracticality of flowers is the perfect representation of a relationship.
Out of all the many Mitzvos we have, Talmud Torah, studying Torah is the least practical. Yes, sometimes we study something that tells us what to do. But often, especially for those of you studying the Talmud, you’re left scratching your head, why am I studying this?
The answer is, it’s an act of love. Learning Torah is buying flowers for G-d.
There is a famous Talmudic passage that describes G-d holding the mountain over us. Many interpret this mountain over our heads in a menacing fashion, that G-d was threatening us that we better accept the Torah or else. But there is another interpretation, one which I prefer. In this explanation, the mountain over our heads is a canopy, a chuppah, and what G-d was saying to us was, I love you. The mountain is the chuppah, the Luchos are our Ketubah, and Shavuos is the beginning of a love affair with G-d.
If we want a relationship with G-d, which I know we all do, it’s not enough to show up to shul once a week, it’s not enough to give a gift of charity every month, like all relationships, it needs constant investment. That’s why our sages encourage daily Torah study over everything else. Talmud Torah k’neged kulam. It’s an opportunity to connect daily with our Divine lover. For those of you who have taken daily Torah study on, don’t stop. And for those who haven’t, Shavuos, the holiday that reminds us of the true nature of Judaism, is a great time to start. And yes, it’s true, studying Torah on a daily basis may not have tangible results, but then again, neither do flowers.
by Ner Tamid | May 25, 2025 | Sermons
There is an excavation site a few minute walk from the old city of Jerusalem, known as Ir David, the city of David. It’s viewed as one of the most important archeological digs in a country filled with important archeological digs. Next time you’re in Israel, it’s worth the time to stop by and take a tour.
There is an archeological term known as a tell. It’s when you uncover one layer dating to a certain period of history and then you keep digging and find another layer underneath from an earlier period. And then you dig deeper and find yet another layer from an even earlier period. Ir David is a perfect example of this form of typography.
There is a new section of Ir David that is opening soon that goes back to the Roman Era, about a thousand years ago. This past week, Ir David was in the news as archeologists found a golden ring dating back 2000 years. When I took my family there over Pesach, the tour guide described stamps or seals that were found there, with names of government officials mentioned by Yirmiyahu, the prophet Jeremiah; he lived over 2500 years ago. And there are tunnels you could walk through that date back to the Bronze Age.
To some degree this is true throughout Jerusalem. Whenever I walk its streets, I wonder to myself who laid down the ground beneath me. Which battles took place on this road, which sages of the Mishan walked through these streets debating the fine points of Halacha, and which Judean kings were paraded down this boulevard.
This idea of a tell, of layered history, is true not only in space, it’s true in time. My wife and I sometimes play a little game where we trace our children’s attributes to each family. This child’s math brain is from this family (not mine), this child’s smile is from this family (that’s mine), and this child’s loud voice is from… well, both families.
Sometimes I wonder how much deeper we could go. Where did those analytical skills come from? They didn’t just come from this child’s grandmother, they go back and back, to ancestor to ancestor to ancestor, to thousands of years of nature and nurture.
What about all the prayers and tears shed for me to even exist? By my mother? By my grandparents? And by all those who came before them?
We are all archeological tells. Our entire identity is made up of layer after layer after layer, even though when we see a person all we see is what stands before us. We cannot see all the layers that are animating every thought and action.
What is true for an individual is certainly true for a community.
Today, we are officially inaugurating the Rabbi Chaim Landau Lounge. It is a beautiful, airy, light-filled space, with a gorgeous portrait of Rabbi Landau, that was made possible by your generosity. It’s part of our front lobby which was made possible, also by your generosity and the generous volunteerism of many of you here.
I’ve been wondering about the young boy or girl who walks through this lobby in thirty years. They’ll see the picture of Rabbi Landau, but they never would have met him. They’ll see the names Herbert Bearman, Rebbetzin Leibowitz, Lynora and Harold Berman, the Reitberger’s, the many names on the plaques, and they will have no idea who most of these people were.
But that’s also not entirely true. Because while they may never have met those people, the impact they made is layered into this institution. The volunteers who put in hours and hours of blood, sweat, and tears, the donors who gave so generously, all of that is layered into the present.
One of the greatest Chassidic Rebbes, Rabbi Yehuda Leib Alter, otherwise known as the Sefas Emes used to share a story justifying how he was able to take over the Gerrer Chassidus at such a young age; he was 22. He spoke of a mountain climber who after years and years of training, climbed one of the highest mountains. After weeks of climbing through difficult terrain and climates, he reaches the summit. And when he gets there he sees a young scrawny boy on top of the mountain. “How in the world did you climb this mountain?!” he asks. And the young boy shrugs his shoulders and says, “I didn’t climb the mountain; I was born here.” We are all indebted to all those who came before us, all those who climbed before us, and allowed us to start our journey on top of a mountain.
What that means practically for us in this room is this: The fact that people in this shul associate the period of time between Pesach and Shavuos as a time of growth is because for two decades Rabbi Landau hosted Omer Lectures in our shul. The fact that this is such a warm shul is in part due to the fact that Rabbi Landau would spot a stranger walking into shul and run off this pulpit to greet them or the fact that he would visit new members in their home for a cup of tea. The fact that this shul is so staunchly Zionist and eager to discuss complicated topics that many other shuls would shy away from is a credit to the decades during which Rabbi Landau established those values. Selfishly, the fact that children in this shul are comfortable talking to rabbis is probably in part due to the many chocolate bars that Rabbi Landau distributed.
If you walk from my home to the shul, you could see the different stages of this building. The main building in red brick, the original front façade in browns and greys, the chapel addition in beige, and now the front lobby in white. Some have commented that it looks a little silly. We should just paint it all so it looks uniform. But it’s actually perfectly emblematic of the reality. This community is an archeological tell; our present is the sum total of all the many people and generations who came before us.
So yes, the boy or girl who walks through those halls in thirty years from now and thinks that they do not know who Rabbi Landau is, is mistaken. Rabbi Landau is coursing through the bloodstream of this shul. His values are animating our every decision. His persona is lifting up our shul culture. That boy or girl may look at that portrait of Rabbi Landau and think they’re looking at a relic of the past. What they don’t realize is that they are looking at a mirror, they are looking into a window of their own soul.
by Ner Tamid | May 18, 2025 | Sermons
Ner Tamid is a mysterious place. There are a whole bunch of things that no one has good answers to. For example, why is it, that despite our shul being in the least public place in Baltimore has a door code that to use one needs to have a PhD in Jewish numerology? Or what exactly is on our roof that when it rains it sounds like we are davening outdoors in a rainforest? How does the kugel get finished so soon after I finish making kiddush? Who managed to get random toys stuck in the light fixtures in the social hall?
These are questions that should keep any self-respecting member of our shul up at night.
However, the mystery I’d like to address today is a personal one – what’s with the rabbi and his cup of water? I’ve never been to a shul where every single Shabbos, the rabbi fills up a cup and takes a sip before he begins talking. What’s the deal? (Also, why does the rabbi speak about himself in the third person…)
Before we solve the great Ner Tamid mystery, let’s take a look at our parsha. Our parsha begins in a rather politically incorrect fashion. It teaches us how Kohanim who have blemishes of different sorts, handicaps, some visible and some not visible at all, are invalidated from working in the Temple. אִ֣ישׁ מִֽזַּרְעֲךָ֞ לְדֹרֹתָ֗ם אֲשֶׁ֨ר יִהְיֶ֥ה בוֹ֙ מ֔וּם לֹ֣א יִקְרַ֔ב לְהַקְרִ֖יב לֶ֥חֶם אֱלֹהָֽיו׃ In other words, not only was the Bais Hamikdash not ADA compliant, it was anti-ADA. Handicapped individuals cannot work here.1
Before I share with you an approach to how we should think about handicaps and disabilities from a Jewish perspective, allow me to share with you an approach to how we should not think about handicaps and disabilities:
Yitzchak Perlman contracted polio at the age of 4. Ever since, he has had to wear metal braces on his legs and often he has to walk with crutches. He also happens to be one of the greatest violinists of our time. There is an apocryphal story told about a particular concert. He came out onto the stage, walking slowly and laboriously util he got to his seat. He gently lay down his crutches, placed the violin under his chin, and right before he began, he tuned one of his strings, when all of a sudden, with an audible snap, one of the strings broke. The audience was expecting him to send for another string, but instead he signaled for the conductor to begin, and he proceeded to play the concerto on only three strings. At the end of the performance the audience gave him a standing ovation; they never saw anything like it. Perlman asked for a mike, and what he said summarized his entire life. “Our task is to make music with what we have.”
Here was a man who was given a form of a death sentence, the inability to walk, the inability to function like a regular person, and yet, he managed to navigate the hurdles sent his way, he overcame them and became a world-famous violinist.
It’s a beautiful and inspiring idea, but it’s missing a critical component that one can only appreciate with a deep faith in G-d. Let’s talk about the Torah’s perspective on disabilities. Inasmuch as the Torah prohibits a Kohein with a disability to serve in the Mishkan, the most consequential Jew to have ever lived had a disability – Moshe. Moshe was born or developed a significant speech impediment. When G-d appeared to him and demanded that Moshe stand before Pharaoh, Moshe pushed back. “Thank you, G-d, I’m flattered. I’m not sure if You noticed, but I can’t speak properly. How in the world do You expect me to be the spokesperson for the Jewish People?!”
G-d does not tell him, “Our task is to make music with what we have,” or, your task is to speak despite your limitations. No. G-d says, “Mi sam peh l’ileim, who gave speech to the mute?”
It’s a very cryptic response, but it’s explained beautifully by Rabeinu Nissim of Gerona. Says Rabbeinu Nissim, G-d was saying as follows: “Moshe, you think I don’t recognize that you have a speech impediment? Who do you think gave you that mouth, who created you with that deficiency? I did, said G-d. And I did so for a very significant reason.”
You see, the Jewish People, after leaving Egypt, were going to be given the Torah. The Torah, as we know, has many laws and many restrictions. G-d was concerned that the Jewish People would years later claim that they were duped, they were talked into it. They would say that they had this leader, a fantastic orator, who sweet-talked them into accepting the Torah. We’ve all experienced that. You ever walk into a store planning on buying one piece of furniture that’s on sale, and then find out that the one you plan on buying is made of terrible quality, and what you really need to buy is the newest brand, and that you really must buy insurance to protect your furniture against a nuclear war, all because some smooth-talking sale-person talked you into it? The Jewish People would say the same thing. Imagine if Moshe Rabbeinu spoke as well as Rabbi Jontahan Sacks. We got duped! We never really wanted the Torah! Rabbi Sacks could have persuaded us to do anything!
But what if the salesperson couldn’t finish their sentences? What if he stammered? What if you had to wait patiently until he finished his sentence? Could the Jewish People make such a claim? Absolutely not.
That’s what G-d was telling Moshe: “Yes I know you have a speech impediment; I was the One who gave it to you. I gave you that speech impediment so that you could fulfill your mission in life! You wouldn’t be fit to give the Jewish People the Torah if you didn’t have a speech impediment! Mi sam peh l’ileim, who created and gave you that disability? I did.”
We all have our own unique mission in life. There is a reason we are placed on this earth. But sometimes we think we’re not fit for the job. We have too many ‘disabilities’. I don’t have patience; how can I deal with my family or co-workers. I don’t have a good head; how could I study Torah?! What G-d was telling Moshe with those words of mi sam peh was that there are no mistakes. That speech impediment, or lack of memory, IQ, family trauma, mental health challenges, whatever deficiency it may – it’s all there for a reason! It’s part of the package! Our disabilities, our “weaknesses,” they aren’t an oversight, they are part of who we are, and what we are expected to do.
The Tzemach Tzedek, the third Lubavitcher Rebbe, suggests that this is why Kohanim who have a disability do not work in the Bais Hamikdash. Not because they’re not wanted there. It’s because they are wanted somewhere else; they have a different mission to fulfill. The role of the Kohanim is to connect people to G-d. Some people come to the Bais Hamikdash to find Him and there are Kohanim there to help. But there are other people, usually people who are hurting in one way or another, who do not have the inner strength to come to the Bais Hamikdash, or perhaps in modern times, can’t bring themselves to come to shul or engage in Judaism in any fashion. They may have had a difficult childhood, they may be experiencing some distress, and they remain at home. Who is able to reach them? Who is able to empathize with them and make them feel seen and heard? The Kohein who is dressed in regal clothing, the Kohein who is tall and fit, the Kohein who was respected from the day he was born, that Kohein can’t necessarily understand the man or woman who is stuck at home; he doesn’t have the life experience to give him that type of insight.
But the Kohein who was always chosen last for the baseball team, the Kohein who people looked at and quickly looked away, the Kohein who had his own fair share of pain, that Kohein can put his arm around that person in pain, look them in the eye, and say, “I get it.”
As people who believe in G-d, who believe in a G-d that is intimately involved in our lives, we do not ask how we can get around our disabilities, how our disabilities can be overcome. No. Instead we ask, in what way can I use this experience to fulfill my personal mission here on earth?
Which brings me back to my cup of water.
About three years ago, I fainted up here on the pulpit. I was probably sick and dehydrated. Whatever it was. As I shared with the congregation on the following Rosh Hashana, what followed was five months of intense panic attacks every time I got up to speak. It was hell. Sometimes I couldn’t speak at all. Sometimes I spoke while sitting down. And other times, I spoke, and it may have looked just fine, but in my head, I was using every technique in the book and barely got through it. Since that Rosh Hashana, I have not missed a sermon due to any panic attacks, but I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t still deal with them.
And it’s bizarre! Before that Pesach, I had no anxiety about getting up here; this was my happy place. When you’re 5’5 and you get a chance to stand up high on this pulpit and see the top of people’s heads, I loved it! But since that time, and yes, even since that Rosh Hashana three years ago, I have grappled with getting up here.
Sometimes I wouldn’t feel anything at all until the last moment. Sometimes I’d be sitting in my seat doing deep breathing during leining. Sometimes I would get hit with a wave as I stood up here. One of the techniques that I developed for myself was this – the cup of water. Knowing that I could pause and take a sip at any point, knowing that I could take a break in middle of a drasha, grounded me.
I don’t need your sympathy, and frankly, I don’t want your sympathy. Baruch Hashem, as time goes on it has gotten easier and easier. And I am also open to the fact that I may one day faint again at this pulpit, you’ll all freak out, and then I’ll make a drasha about it the next week. It’s all good.
More importantly, a panic attack is nothing compared to what so many people in this room deal with every single day. Statistically speaking, there are a good number of people in this room who have extreme anxiety and depression and other mental health challenges. Statistically speaking, there are a significant number of people who have familial distress and so many other challenges they deal with daily. We all have something, a ‘disability’ we are dealing with, and I am no exception.
Yitzchak Perlman would tell me that I must figure out how to overcome this challenge. But Rabbeinu Nissim and the Tzemech Tzedek would encourage me to ask myself what I can learn from it and how it can help me in my life mission. Perhaps like the Kohein who was disqualified from the Avoda, perhaps G-d wanted me to open my eyes a little wider to all the pain in this world, not only the visible pain, but the invisible pain which is so often so much worse.
Mi sam peh l’ilem? Who gave me this challenge? Who gave you your challenge? G-d did. And He did so for a reason.
by Ner Tamid | May 4, 2025 | Sermons
My children tell me I talk about Christianity too often. They tell me that it’s weird for a rabbi to say Jesus from the pulpit as often as I do. They’re probably right. But, in my defense, for the past 1500 years so much of our history has been directly influenced by Christianity that it’s hard to escape. So today, as Catholic leaders are busy negotiating behind closed doors who will be the next pope – a question that has tremendous ramifications to Israel and to the Jewish People, I think it’s a good a time as any to talk about Christianity in general, and Pope Francis in particular. And to my children, just chalk this up as another argument you lost to your father…
There are a number of alleged mentions of Jesus in the Talmud. I say alleged because there is much scholarly debate if the individual or individuals mentioned are actually Jesus or someone else. My favorite story is one found at the end of Maseches Sanhedrin involving Rav Yehoshua ben Prachya. The story goes that Rav Yehoshua ben Prachya, one of the leading sages of his time, was travelling with his students when one of the students made an indecent comment. Rav Yehoshua was shocked by his student’s comment and banished him by putting him in cherem. The student, named Yeshu, which is Hebrew for Jesus, begged his teacher for forgiveness numerous times. Each time he was rejected. Until finally, the student came to ask for forgiveness, and his teacher, Rav Yehoshua, was ready to forgive him, only that he was davening. So instead of speaking, he motioned to his student. Rav Yehoshua meant, hold on a moment. Yeshu understood him to indicate that he should go away. And he did. The Gemara concludes that all the evil that befell the Jewish People at the hands of this man and his followers were caused by the great sage, Rav Yehoshua ben Prachya.
I love this Gemara because it is a perfect example of how Jews are supposed to learn history. We do not point fingers. We do not vlame or play the victim. Instead of highlighting all the things that Jesus and his followers did to us, the Gemara challenges us to ask, what did we do wrong in this situation? How can we grow? How can we change?
I love this Gemara, but the Christian censors in medieval Europe did not. They felt like it was offensive and forced the printers to remove the whole story from the Talmud. If you have an older edition of the Talmud from a Christian country, that section would be missing.
Of course, censorship was the least of our problems for much of medieval history. As James Carroll observes, Christianity was originally a movement that opposed violence and power. And yet, Constantine, the Roman Emperor came along and made Christianity synonymous with power and violence. For the next thousand years, Jews were persecuted for their faith by their Christian neighbors.
In the 15th century, a decision was made by the leaders of the Inquisition that would have ripple effects all the way to the Holocaust. Until that point in history, Jews were evil because they chose to reject who they believed to be the true messiah. But in the 15th century this posed a problem. Many Jews, especially in Spain and Portugal, started converting to Christianity. The church was not happy; they had all sorts of incentives, political and financial to continue discriminating against these converted Jews. And so they decided to discriminate against Jews not because of their faith but because of their race, allowing the church to lead a witch-hunt against Jews who converted, who they described as Marranos, literally, pigs. Carrol argues that this shift, from discriminating by faith to discriminating by race, paved the way for the Nazis a few hundred years later, to do the same. The road from Rome to Auschwitz, argues James Carroll, is a straight one.
It’s an intriguing thesis. James Carroll, a former priest uses it to point a finger at the modern church, begging them to introspect and ask themselves if they have don enough to undo the harm they caused.
Following in the footsteps of the story of Rav Yehoshua ben Prachya, I’d like to use this story not to point fingers outward, but inward, and use this story for introspection.
For virtually the entire history of Christianity, Christians were the ones in power and Jews were powerless. The church abused that power to amass wealth and to gain political support. But now, for the first time since Jesus was born, we, the Jewish People have power. We, the Jewish People have a country and an army and the ability to wield that power over others. And now we need to look in the mirror and ask ourselves if we are using this power appropriately.
Let’s be abundantly clear, does the State of Israel need to do everything in its power to defend her people? Yes. Has the State of Israel gone above and beyond in limiting the deaths of Arabs in all its wars, including in the current war against Gaza? Without a doubt. When a nation wages war, there are consequences and people in that nation, even if they are entirely innocent, will die. And the only one to blame, in this case, is Hamas. Have peace deals, the exit of Gush Katif in any way shape or form worked? Have the PA or Hamas been partners in peace? No. Not even close. Full stop.
But there is a growing trend of racism in some of our circles. Jews who deny the notion of tzelem Elokim, of the intrinsic value of every human being, and comfortably describe Arabs as subhuman. There are Jews who argue that we are allowed to take justice into our own hands by firebombing mosques, by terrorizing Arab children, and much worse. None of that is acceptable.
This is not an indictment on any current or past political figure in Israel. It really isn’t. They don’t matter. (See Noam Weissman for a great analysis of modern Kahanism: https://unpacked.media/meir-kahane-jewish-defender-or-jewish-supremacist/.) We’re not talking to them. As the Talmud teaches us through the story of Rav Yehoshu ben Prachya, the only thing that matters is us; what we do and what we think. How do we, Jews who are finally in a position of power, think about that power?
Are Arabs ‘animals’ that must be treated as such by vigilantes, or alternatively, are we in a war, and must do whatever is necessary to protect the Jewish People and fight our enemies through the State of Israel’s military apparatus? Those are not the same.
Are all Arabs ‘bloodthirsty’ and undeserving of peace, or alternatively, must we be exceptionally skeptical of any peace agreements, and yes, entertain idea that may even be politically incorrect to ensure the safety of the Jewish People? Those are not the same.
There is a big difference between those two sides. One is about denigrating other human beings and the other is about personal safety – the ethical imperative to ensure one’s own safety and the safety of one’s family.
We now have the sword and we now have authority. And that is a terrible and complicated responsibility.
Which brings me back to Pope Francis.
I’ll be honest, I was initially very excited when he was elected as pope. I was enamored by the images of him riding that dinky little car instead of a royal entourage. I was moved by the pictures of him caring for the most needy and broken. He exemplified one of the characteristics that the original priests, the Kohanim, were meant to characterize. In our parsha we read how the Metzora, the leper, who is banished from the camp, is visited by the Kohein. The Kohein is there not only for technical reasons, but to give chizzuk, to give support, to give guidance and love to the individual who is an outcast. In this respect, Pope Francis was a model of what a spiritual leader should look like.
But there is another role for the Kohein; he is also the spiritual guide, a person of authority. This week’s parsha goes into overwhelming detail as to how the Kohein assesses whether or not the leprosy is indeed Tzoraas. He visits the Metzora once and then again and then a third time. Each time, he measures, he analyzes, and he weighs. To be a spiritual leader one must be able to be mavdil bein kodesh l’chol, bein hatamei uvein hatahor. Crystal clear guidance is needed.
And in this respect, Pope Francis fell woefully short. He spoke positively about gay unions but outlawed gay marriage. In doing so, he confused his followers and caused confusion to the entire religious world. He spoke out against sexual abuse in the church, and appointed a friend, Victor Manuel Fernandez, as prefect despite his well-known history of sexual abuse. In doing so, he gave false hope and sewed frustration in the hearts of the most vulnerable. And, as he did in his final address, he spoke out against antisemitism – he was undoubtedly opposed to those who discriminated against Jews, and in that same speech, vilified the Jewish state, and in doing so, paved the way for even more antisemitism.
A spiritual guide is an authority, his or her role is to provide clarity. One of the greatest gifts that our Torah presents to us is the knowledge that this is moral and this is not, from the moment of conception until we take our last breath, the Torah clearly defines what we should do and should not do, what is right and what is wrong. Religion is meant to provide clarity in a relativistic confusing world, l’havdil bein kodesh l’chol, bein hatamei uvein hatahor.
Will the church learn the lessons of history and elect a pontiff who will once and for all undo the harm caused by two thousand years of the Christian sword? Will they put into power someone who can provide moral clarity in a world of confusion? I really hope so. But even more importantly, will we?
