by Ner Tamid | Apr 27, 2025 | Sermons
The other day, Miri, my four-year-old, got on the phone with my mother, her grandmother. “How is Israel?” my mother asked.
“Great!” my daughter replied.
My mother followed up with the classic question, “What was your favorite part?”
I started listening. Would she say it was kissing the kotel? Seeing so many Jews at Birkas Kohanim? Spending so much time with her immediate and extended family?
“The ice cream.”
That’s what she said. “My favorite part of Israel was the ice cream.”
Now there happens to be a really great chain of Israeli ice cream stores called Katzefet, and the ice cream is great. But I was a little disappointed. I packed seven huge pieces of luggage, spent all this time, money, effort, and energy, for my daughter to come home and say she enjoyed Israeli ice cream. Meh.
Kids are a lot more insightful than we give them credit for. I think Mirir was actually onto something when she described the best part of our trip to Israel was the ice cream.
I’ve been to Israel quite a few times over the past few years; each time for either on a mission or to attend a conference. At conferences, I would inevitably meet high-ranking politicians, great rabbis, Jewish leaders. Whether it was in the lectures they delivered, or the conversations I had with them in in the hallways, I would typically walk away from such encounters more educated and inspired and feeling pretty elevated after meeting such special people.
On these missions, we’d typically visit unique places, places like the Nova site, and those tours would be led by people who survived. Moving. Chilling. Inspiring.
Sometimes they’d take you to places that no one else has access to. Thrilling.
Maybe we’d go to some special prayer gathering led by someone with a soul-stirring voice. Transformative.
The trip I just went on with my family from the beginning to the end was the exact opposite. We stayed in Katamon, a predominantly Israeli and Hebrew-speaking community. As a tourist I stood out.
We shopped in the Israeli supermarkets. Which by the way are insane. It’s like someone took all the products in Costco, threw them in the air, and let them land wherever. “Where’s the oil?”
“Ehhhm. The oil is next to the garbage bags.”
Interesting.
We didn’t daven in any fancy, uplifting, unique shuls. We davened in what is known as the Katmon shtiblich. The shtiblich are like Rabbi Eichenstein’s shul. It has better traffic control outside, but inside it is far more chaotic. There is no set nusach in that shul. Whomever gets up to be the chazzan can lead in whichever nusach he wants. It’s like a game. We finish shemoneh esrei and there’s a short pause. Everyone’s guessing, what’s he going to do next? Sefardi one day, Asheknaz the next. Teimani. Hodge-potch of both. I was waiting for some Christian Missionary to get up one day and start leading davening. It was a mess. And was also genuinely Israeli. No games, no performances. Everyone from all walks of Jewish life crowded into a small space with no air conditioning.
There is a book that someone wrote about what he learned from Israeli taxi drivers. These guys, often times with no kippah on their head, spout forth so much Emunah, so much faith, it’s incredible. On our trip, we barely used taxis.
When we arrived, I somehow persuaded my family not to take a taxi. We did what every Israeli does and took the bullet train from the airport to Jerusalem. I made everyone in my family lug this huge piece of luggage with them, even Miri. We got off the train and then we took a bus to where we were staying. Now here they made a mistake by listening to me because I have no sense of direction and I took them – after a stopover flight with seven huge pieces of luggage, after a train ride, on the right bus, going in the wrong direction. We eventually got there. Very sweaty and a little smelly. Again, very Israeli.
We did use one or two taxis when we had to, but there were no inspiring stories, The last taxi I took, the driver – an Arab – told me how has three wives and laughed at me that I only had one. I’m still not sure if he was being honest, just messing with me, or was undercover Mossad agent.
The most famous person I saw on this trip was Natan Sharansky. I walked by him taking a stroll with his wife Avital on Yom Tov. I wished them a Chag Sameiach. They looked at me, shrugged, and walked on.
Again, classic Israeli experience.
So yes, when my little daughter said that “ice cream” was her favorite part of the trip that was a good summary. It was as quiet and normal as can be. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that normal was the best possible Israel experience I could have given my children.
You see, this Thursday is Yom Ha’atzmaut. We will be saying Hallel in our shul as we always do. There will be celebrations next door at Shomrei which we will participate in. And on Yom Ha’atzmaut we get excited about the gift of Israel, how in just over 75 years, a strip of desert-land has bloomed, how a ragtag group of intellectuals and survivors created one of the most sophisticated armies, how kibbutznkim created a tech hub, and how Torah has exploded in our holy land. It’s hard to understand how people do not celebrate the gift of modern Israel.
But in doing so, in focusing on all these near-miraculous developments, we run the risk of ignoring the ice cream. By placing so much emphasis on Israel, the spectacular, we run the risk of losing sight of Israel, the normal.
Do we say a bracha for Hallel on Yom Ha’atzmaut? Do we not say a bracha for Hallel on Yom Ha’atzmaut? Great question. But that overshadows a bracha you will all be saying in an hour or so, a bracha many say daily. In the second paragraph of Birkas Hamazon, Baruch Ata Hashem al ha’aretz v’al hamazon. Thank you, Hashem, for the food and for the land.
That bracha was not composed 75 years ago, it was said by our ancestors in Babylon and Rome as Israel was a burning heap of rubble. The bracha was said by our ancestors in Europe as the Crusaders and Muslims soaked Israel’s soil in blood. The bracha was said when the land was described by Mark Twain as “a desolation… that not even imagination can grace with the pomp of life and action.”
Yes, we need to thank Hashem for the gift and the grandeur of modern Israel. But we also need to thank Hashem “al ha’aretz,” for the land, for having been given a place to call home, whether we were allowed to live in that home or not. G-d gave us a gift that our ancestors knew to appreciate even as it was barren and even as they lived thousands of miles away. And not just any land. Its stones, its dirt-baked streets, are all saturated with holiness. G-d gave us a shared space where He promised to one day meet up with us again.
When we only focus on the overt and extraordinary holiness – the people and places we’re exposed to on missions, then we lose sight of the fact that this land is holy and is ours and is special. Just because. Baruch ata Hashem al ha’aretz. Thank you for the gift of the land of Israel, Israel, the normal.
One of the most important institutions of Israel, the spectacular, is a Yeshiva called Har Etzion or “The Gush.” The story of the yeshiva goes back to 1943 when Kfar Etzion, an area 2 kilometers from Jerusalem was established. In 1948, one day before the declaration of Independence, after a grueling battle with the Jordanians, the people of Kfar Etzion surrendered. Despite their surrender, the Jordanians, with the help of local Arabs massacred over 150 Jews, including women and children. They burned the Kibbutz to the ground. The bodies of those massacred were left to rot until a yar later when Israelis were given permission to bury them. Yom Hazikaron, Israel’s memorial day, was established on the day before Israel’s Independence Day because of this horrific incident.
In 1967, the land returned to Jewish rule. A group of Jews immediately settled the land and a very short while later a Yeshiva opened, Yeshivat Har Etzion. This yeshiva attracts some of the brightest students in the world, and the vast majority of the students serve in the IDF. The yeshiva is a symbol for all that is spectacular about Israel.
With that in mind, let me share with you an observation made by its founding Rosh Yeshiva, Rav Yehuda Amital. Rav Amital points out that one of the most famous descriptions of the Messianic Era is that of Zechariah, the prophet. He does not describe Israel’s military power, or their spiritual greatness. Rather, “Od yeshvu z’keinim uz’keinos birchovos Yerushalayim.” Then, in that future time, old men and women will sit in the streets of Jerusalem. “וּרְחֹב֤וֹת הָעִיר֙ יִמָּ֣לְא֔וּ יְלָדִ֖ים וִֽילָד֑וֹת מְשַׂחֲקִ֖ים בִּרְחֹֽבֹתֶֽיהָ” And the streets will be filled with boys and girls playing in their streets. Playing, I imagine, and also eating ice cream.
Rav Amital, living on land sanctified by the blood of innocents, land that was redeemed by the strength of heroes, teaching in a yeshiva that was pumping out the leaders of Israel, he understood that the real gift of Israel is eternal, and its greatness is found in its simplest form.
Thank you, Hashem, for the gift of Israel, the spectacular. Thank you, Hashem, for the gift of Israel, the normal.
by Ner Tamid | Mar 30, 2025 | Sermons
This past Thursday night, a rabbi friend of mine texted me, “Watcha got?”
This is what rabbis do when they need an inspiring story, a new angle, or just to get those drasha-juices flowing.
I replied that I am thinking of talking about YU. I was referring to the news that this past week, how Yeshiva University came to an agreement with a group of students who wanted to open an LGBT club in the college. This controversy has been raging on for years in and out of court. There are legal issues at play as the college is officially a public institution, and of course, there are matters of Halacha and Hashkafah that have to be addressed.
My friend surprised me by saying that he was also thinking about talking about YU. “Really?’ I wrote back. My friend’s not the controversial type. He said, “Yes. But it has nothing to do with the club. My message is that no one should ever go to Yeshiva University, club or no club.”
The particular controversy around this club in YU is a very important one, one that I would like to revisit at a later time. Sorry, not today. Today, I’d like to reply my colleague and good friend, who will not be named, who, like many people before him, have suggested that Yeshiva University is intrinsically flawed, that one cannot have an institution that is both a yeshiva and a college, that the merging of the holy and the mundane is a grave mistake.
For starters, let me get this out of the way, I did not go to YU. I went to Ner Yisroel so I have no skin in this game. (Once we’re on the topic of where I did not go, I also did not go to any Chabad yeshivas despite my little beard and my tzitzis hanging out. I get that question a lot. Now that we got that out of the way…)
Yeshiva University was established in 1886. But the controversy around secular studies goes back almost 1000 years. It came to a head in the times of the Rambam, Maimonides, who famously incorporated Aristotelian thought into his worldview. Perhaps more accurately, Aristotelian though guided his worldview. One of the Rambam’s most famous works was Moreh Nevuchim in which he addressed every possible critique against the Torah, using what some would describe as secular logic.
In his lifetime, most people disagreed quietly, but after he died, the controversy exploded. His opponents were concerned that his openness to secular knowledge would suck people into a world that rejected G-d and the Torah. Ultimately, some of his opponents turned to the local authorities telling them that the Rambam’s book, Moreh Nevuchim, was a threat to all religions which led to one of the most tragic moments in Jewish history. In 1232, encouraged by enemies of the Rambam, a group of Dominican monks went through France, confiscated all the copies of Moreh Nevuchim they could get their hands on, and burned them in a public square.
In 1305, the Rashba, the leading Torah scholars of that time, tried to make a compromise between the opponents of learning secular studies and those who embraced it. He suggested that one can learn secular philosophy but only after the age of 25. His attempt at compromise went nowhere. Each side dug in even deeper.
On one side you had those who believed that a deeper knowledge of philosophy, of science, of history, broadens us. By extension, this group of Torah leaders believed that we should embrace and grapple with the world around us. On the other side, there were those who believed that any engagement in the world around us posed too many risks. They believed that worldviews that do not align to the Torah will draw us away from G-d and will distort our understanding of the Torah. The Vilna Gaon, after disagreeing with a ruling of the Rambam, famously quipped: “The Rambam’s engagement in philosophy caused him to err.” (Yoreh Deah, 179:6:3)
***
On Thursday night, I had the great joy of seeing one of my Rebbeim from Kerem B’Yavneh, Rav Mendel Blachman who was visiting Baltimore. He is a towering individual who I credit in so many ways for anything I have learned and accomplished in my life. One specific story is worth sharing in this context:
One Shabbos, our yeshiva, Kerem B’Yavneh, was visited by Rav Hershel Schachter, Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshiva University. After Friday night dinner there was a Q and A session. One of my good friends, a bright guy with zero tact, got up to ask a question. “Rav Schachter, does it bother you that virtually all the Gedolim, all the great Torah scholars of the day, disagree with your worldview?” Among other things, my friend was referring to Rav Schachter leading Yeshiva University, a place where secular studies are explored side by side with Torah study, he was referring to Rav Schachter’s unabashed Zionism. These are positions that many of the great Torah leaders of our time disagree with. Rav Schachter being the humble person that he is, did not answer the question.
Sunday morning, my rebbi, Rav Blachman, came into our class. He opened the Gemara we were learning and then he closed it. Instead of delivering his regular Talmud class, he spent the next hour railing on those who believe there is only one hashkafah, one approach to understanding how a Torah Jew, is supposed to live their life. That is not the Jewish way. There has always been divergent views within Torah Judaism. And yes, there have been views beyond the pale; the Sadducees, the Karites , the Sabbateans, other denominations of Judaism and others. But within Torah Judaism, within a worldview that subscribes to absolute fidelity to the Torah and to the Sages, there has always been more than one way.
There are exceptions, there are Mitzvos that our Sages decided cannot have divergent views. Mitzvos like Kiddush Hachodesh, the sanctification of the new moon, the Jewish calendar. Imagine a world in which there were two views on what day Pesach starts, that would be a disaster. Such a debate would rip us apart as a people and that’s something we cannot allow. The Gemara shares a story in which Rabban Gamliel forced his colleague Rav Yehoshua to travel on the day Rav Yehoshua thought it was supposed to be Yom Kippur based on his interpretation because two calendars would upend Jewish unity. But this story is the exception! For the most part, honest, Torah-driven debate, was the rule. And that’s more than okay. It’s necessary. G-d created us with different temperaments, with different proclivities. Inasmuch as we have different tastes, there are different flavors to Judaism.
Rav Blachman concluded, not only was the question rude, it was wrong. Find yourself a Gadol, find yourself a great Torah scholar (not some guy with the title rabbi before his name who writes well on social media). Find someone who is immersed in Torah, and if his Torah worldview speaks to you, if it resonates with you, follow him. And stop looking over your shoulder, stop worrying about the fact that this or that great Torah scholar disagrees. Find your Torah leader and follow your own path.
Centrist Orthodoxy or Modern Orthodoxy or whatever you want to call it has a complex. Those who subscribe to it are constantly looking over their shoulder, and that’s ridiculous.
Is Rav Yosef Soloveitchik not worthy of following? Is Rav Avraham Yitzchak Kook not worthy of following?
In a world in which there are great rabbis telling people not to support the IDF and there are other great rabbis arguing that IDF soldiers are the holiest people on the planet, I don’t know about you, but that second group is far more compelling to me.
In a world in which all of us, whether you live in Teaneck or in Lakewood, is engaged in the secular world around us, and there are great rabbis pretending the world around us does not exist and there are great rabbis grappling with how to engage, what to keep and what to throw away, I don’t know about you, but that second group is far more compelling.
So no, Yeshiva University is not a bad place. If you are deciding between a college in which there is no Torah learning and a yeshiva college in which there is; if you are deciding between a college where the rate of attrition is sky-high, where a significant percentage of Jewish boys and girls are not remaining committed to their upbringing, which is virtually every secular college, and Yeshiva University, where yes, there may be a club that we will one day discuss, but for the most part, the students are able to live fully immersed Torah lives, the decision is clear. Yeshiva University is a gift.
Yes, our community needs to strengthen itself in its Torah observance. Yes, our community needs to elevate the way we pray, and it needs to step up the level of Torah learning. But do not be embarrassed. Do not be afraid. To walk in the footsteps of the Rambam, of the Ramchal, of Rav Kook, of Rav Soloveitchik, admas kodesh hu, we are on holy ground.
***
We just said the words, Chazak, Chazak, V’nis’chazeik, as we completed the book of Shemos. The Sefer Hamanhig points out that those words, “Chazak, be strong!” were first said to Yehoshua. This is not a coincidence. As opposed to his teacher, Moshe, who led the Jewish People in the desert, sequestered away from the distractions of the world, Yehoshua led the Jewish People in battle, he led the Jewish People into a life of commerce, into a life of worldly engagement, a life that we, our community, believes in. It takes strength to live a life of worldly engagement. So let’s be strong. Chazak, Chazak, V’nis’chazeik.
(Inspired by https://www.ou.org/sacred-and-profane-conflicts/)
by Ner Tamid | Mar 18, 2025 | Sermons
Have you started planning for Pesach yet? Are you cleaning? Cooking? Making a menu? Pulling your hair out?
If we were living in ancient Egypt at the time of Yetzias Mitzrayim, the Exodus, we would be chilling right now. Really. We weren’t working for the Egyptians – they had given up on us a few months prior. We did not yet know if and when we were leaving. I honestly don’t know what they were doing. Maybe they were getting camel rides or tours of the pyramids.
We read this morning (from the second Torah) that the Jewish People were introduced to the holiday of Pesach only fourteen days before it took place. That means that Pesach preparation would not start until this upcoming Thursday, Rosh Chodesh Nissan. You probably think that those two weeks were crazy; frenetic activity, getting ready for the very first Pesach seder, and even more so, getting ready to leave Egypt. But I don’t think it was as busy as you imagine.
Were the Jewish People spending their time cleaning their homes from chameitz?
No. The average size of an Egyptian home in 2000 BCE was about the size of a two-car garage. They were far more economical with their food. Hardly anything went to waste. How long would it take you to clean an already fairly clean two-car garage? An hour? Maybe.
Were they cooking?
No. They were only eating one meal at home and the main course, the lamb, was prepared on the eve of Pesach.
Were they packing?
Not really. Most Egyptians in that era, even wealthy ones, had almost no furniture. Poor Egyptians did not use dishes. Eating utensils did not exist. (That’s what we have fingers for.) They typically had a mortar, a pestle, a pot, a pan, and a bowl for storing things.
In terms of clothing, kids under six, did not wear any clothing… The adults had one pair of clothing – which they were wearing. So, when the Jewish People left Egypt there were no U-hauls. It probably took them fifteen minutes to pack.
For those keeping track, we are up to hour and fifteen minutes of prep time.
Perhaps they were borrowing objects from their neighbors, as they were instructed to do. Let’s give them a day to do that.
The men were getting circumcised. I assume they needed a few days to recover.
So, if we were being generous with their time, they needed at most a week to prepare for Pesach. And if that’s so, if my math and history are correct, the Jewish People really had oodles of time at their disposal, so why did G-d inform them about Pesach two weeks before it started? What were the Jewish People supposed to be doing during that time? Was He trying to just get us anxious?! What was that time for?
Clearly, no one was listening to the Torah reading today. Because the answer is right there. G-d says, “Hachodesh hazeh lachem, this month is the first month of the Jewish year.” And then, “On the tenth of the month, you should go a get a lamb to slaughter.” It’s quite clear that the reason G-d tells the Jewish People about Pesach fourteen days before it happens is for one reason and one reason only – to give them a heads up about the Pascal Lamb.
Now of course, this doesn’t fully answer our question. If they were not going to take the lamb until the tenth of the month, and not going to roast the lamb until the 14th of the month, why do they need to know about this Mitzvah two weeks in advance?
So, if you were listening to the Torah reading… you would know that there is a law about the Korban Pesach – lo sosiru mimenu ad boker, there were to be no leftovers. The entire lamb had to be eaten on the night of Pesach.
How many people could a lamb feed?
According to our good friends at bigroast.com, a regular sized lamb can feed… 45 people!
So, if you needed to make sure that there were no leftovers, and assuming your family size was let’s just say, 8 people, you needed to invite guests. A lot of guests.
I believe the extra week was given to the Jewish People for this reason alone; to invite guests for Pesach.
Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch suggests that this is precisely why we were instructed to make sure there were no leftovers; to ensure that the Pesach Seder would not be experienced alone. The true sign of freedom is a person or a family who are not simply focused on their own survival and wellbeing. The true sign of freedom is a person or a family who care about others.
This is why we begin the Seder with an invitation to guests. How do we begin the section of Maggid? “Ha lachma anya, this is the bread of affliction, kol dichfin, yeisi v’yechol, whoever is hungry, come and eat.”
It’s a bizarre passage. Who exactly are we inviting when we say those words? Our friends and family are already at the table with us when it’s said.
The Avudraham, a 14th century Spanish Torah scholar, relates that it was a genuine invitation. In his time, people would actually open their doors at the beginning of the seder and call out those words – “If you’re hungry, come and join me.” People in need would be waiting in the streets for these invitations. This practice was a perpetuation of the very first Pesach seder, in which no one ate alone, every person was accounted for. Though we no longer do this, by saying those words at the beginning of the seder, we remind ourselves of this beautiful custom. It’s so central to the night, that it is the opening passage in the section of Maggid. It’s to remind us that sharing, caring, ensuring that we are not just focused on ourselves is the primary feature of a free and dignified person.
The most shocking and devastating section in the book, Night, by Elie Wiesel, describes a German throwing a scrap of bread to a group of starving Jews. Wiesel relates how the Jews, who haven’t eaten for days start fighting viciously over the tiny piece of food. One man is victorious; he proudly holds up the crust of bread after wrestling it away from everyone else. And then he’s pounced upon by another starving man, who beats him, and ultimately beats him to death. Wiesel drily comments that it was a son who killed his own father for a piece of bread.
That’s what starvation does to a person. It turns them into an animal. That’s what a slavery does to a person. They become entirely focused on survival and self-preservation.
And so, on the weeks leading up to Pesach, the Jewish People were told, you are no longer slaves; you are free. You are no longer focused only on survival; you are dignified. You are no longer subject to the rules of our base inclinations; you are a master of your own destiny. You are no longer a taker; you are a giver.
For two weeks the Jewish People went around, checking in on their neighbors, especially those who didn’t have a family of their own, or those who didn’t have an intact family, or those who had less than the other Jews, and invited them to the Pesach seder.
Maybe they were turned down. But I hope that didn’t dissuade them. Perhaps they offered to walk near them as they travelled into the frightening desert to provide some moral support. Perhaps they made a mental note to check in with them at some later time in the year knowing that it wasn’t only Pesach that these people struggled. Perhaps they invited them to a different meal at a different time or take them out for the Egyptian equivalent of a coffee. There are many ways to make sure that those who are lonely feel a little less alone.
I imagine that stuffing 45 people into a home the size of a two-car garage was not so comfortable. Maybe some of the guests made them a little uncomfortable. But freedom is not always comfortable. Doing the right thing is not always comfortable.
We have two weeks and five days to prepare for Pesach – that’s five more days than our ancestors. Cleaning our homes from chameitz is important. Having a delicious Pesach menu is great. But real freedom, the freedom that our ancestors tasted in the days leading up to Pesach, is the freedom to share. Not everyone can have 45 people at their seder. But every single one of us can and must make sure that no one, no one at all, is left feeling alone.
by Ner Tamid | Mar 9, 2025 | Sermons
As many of you know I spent the past week in Israel participating in Voice of the People, an initiative by President Herzog to tackle the biggest issues facing the Jewish People. My team was tasked with combatting antisemitism. At one point in our discussions I shared that it would be ridiculous to conceptualize antisemitism only through a modern lens. We have been grappling and overcoming antisemitism since before we were a nation, and it would be critical to spend some time thinking about how our tradition dealt with this ancient hate.
The most basic text, of course, is what we read this morning, a section known as Parshas Zachor. It is the story of an evil nation that attacked us for no reason. We read how we are commanded to remember to fight them in every generation.
However, already in the times of the Talmud, this Mitzvah was reinterpreted to be understood metaphorically. The battle against Amaleik was seen not as an evil antisemitic nation bent on our destruction but as an idea; to fight the evil within ourselves, or to overcome doubt, or to live a life of religious fervor, and numerous other interpretations.
This shift to metaphor is easy to understand. For starters, we had no power; no army, no strength, and no voice to fight back against those who tried to kill us. But it wasn’t just a practical reason we shifted to metaphor, it was philosophical. Our prophets, most specifically Isaiah, taught us a concept called peace. As historian Paul Johnson noted, the Jewish People introduced to the world the notion that peace is not a last resort, but rather, the highest ideal, and that it should be pursued from a place of strength.
And so, whenever we could, we tried seeing the possibility of peace in everyone around us. Whether it was King Shaul who chose to let some of the Amaleikim live, whether it was Western Jews who felt uncomfortable with the notion of an evil nation that needed to be destroyed – something that sounded awfully genocidal, whether it was my great-grandparents hoping that Hitler was exaggerating, or whether it was the Israeli government who allowed themselves to believe that Hamas was not interested in our destruction. Amaleik, in this naïve mindset, came to symbolize a spiritual fight for perhaps more Torah or greater unity, but as best as possible, we shifted away from thinking of Amaleik as a real enemy that needed to be destroyed.
Things are starting to change. We’ve started to shift away from metaphor. In Israel, even the most left-leaning (mainstream) politicians have given up, for now, on a two-state solution; they will not tolerate a Hamas-led government in the east and no longer have any faith in those in charge to our west. When we’ve witnessed how a nation is willing to give up their relative comfort for the sake of destroying our people, when we’ve witnessed a nation that does not fight against soldiers, but fights against infants, then the Purim mask is removed and Amaleik is no longer seen as a metaphor.
And yet, some habits die hard. In some ways, even the State of Israel is still living in metaphor la-la land. One of the people we had an opportunity to speak with this past week was Michal Cotler-Wunsh, Israel’s Special Envoy to combat antisemitism. She lamented the fact that the State of Israel has invested almost nothing to combat international antisemitism. While they are sinking billions of dollars to fight enemies in the region, they have barely spent a penny fighting global antisemitism. She asked the government to dedicate the equivalent of one fighter jet to fighting antisemitism and they laughed at her. In doing so, they are ignoring the dangers of the college students and professors, the Hollywood actors and journalists, the podcasters and influencers, who are bashing Israel at every turn. To ignore them by dismissing their rhetoric as just words, is just as naïve as dismissing the buildup of Hamas over the past decade.
As we know from our tradition, words lead to actions. “Vayo’rei’u osanu haMitzrim,” a line from the Haggadah, is loosely translated as they did evil to us. But Rav Soloveitchik observes that a more accurate translation is that they made us out to be evil. Once you demonize, once you paint the Jewish People as being worthy of destruction, then the jump to concentration camps and death camps, to mass rape and kidnapping children, is quite small. As Michal put it: “We are inching closer and closer to a time in which if Iran were to annihilate the Jewish People, the international community would say, todah, thank you.”
I am by nature a peace-loving person who naturally sees good in others, and it’s to people like me that the Torah demands of us to stop allowing evil to hide behind metaphors. But rather, to see the evil around us and acknowledge it for what it is. Those who do not believe Israel should exist are not just misguided, it is not just a different opinion, the antisemitism we are seeing around us is evil and it is lethal. Milchama laShem ba’Amaleik midor dor. There is “a war against Amaleik in every generation.”
I am not suggesting we kill those who deserve to be called Amaleik. I am suggesting we stop dancing around the word evil. The commandment to read Parshas Zachor reminds us that it exists. No metaphors needed.
***
Now I know this may sound shocking but my group and I did not “solve” antisemitism in the few days we spent together. (The purpose of the week was to bond, to scratch the surface of the topic in person, and then we will be meeting regularly online over the next two years to try and tackle at least one facet of antisemitism.) But despite us not solving anything, I did learn something from all of them, which in its own way is the first step to combatting antisemitism, a lesson that takes us back to the very first battle against our eternal enemy.
The Torah tells us that in our fight against Amaleik, Moshe stood atop a mountain and lifted his hands up high. In no other Biblical war, do we find this strange action. It was clearly critical because the Torah elaborates and tells us that when he got tired, he did not stop. No matter what, he held his hands up high.
There are many metaphorical explanations, but we do not need any metaphors. The message is so abundantly clear. Yes, we fought, yes, we prayed, but Moshe needed to teach the Jewish People an eternal answer for times when we cannot and should not kill, for times when we may not have the ability to pray. Amaleik attacked those who were weak. Hanecheshalim b’cha. So Moshe, the 80-year-old leader of the Jewish People lifted his hands for all to see to convey one simple and powerful message – we are not weak. We are proud. That’s how we fight antisemitism. That’s how we win.
I had a conversation at the conference with a woman who described her experiences in high school. She was the only Jew in a school made up of mostly Muslims and they harassed her. Day in and day out, high school for this young woman, was miserable. She lamented the fact that there was no educational program to help teach the students about antisemitism, she was upset that there was no system that punished those who bullied her. It was terribly sad listening to her story.
Speaking to her reminded me of a time that I got bullied in elementary school. As you may have noticed I am not so tall. There was this one boy in my 3rd grade class who made it his business to constantly remind me of how short I was. As you can imagine, I was devastated. I was too embarrassed to tell my parents but my mother noticed that something was wrong and so I told her. Nowadays if a child is being bullied, the parent calls the school, and the school is expected to intervene. Thankfully for me, this was not the case in the early 90’s, and instead I learned one of the most important lessons of my life.
My mother asked me if the bully was right; should I be embarrassed that I am short? Is there something wrong with me that I am short? Of course, the answer was no. Who made you short, my mother asked me. “G-d?” I sheepishly said. My mother nodded. “Yes, exactly, and G-d thinks it’s just fine that you are that size. So next time this guy calls you short, you tell him to complain to the One who made you that way.”
Now you have to understand, in my very yeshivish elementary school this was the ultimate comeback. And so it was. The next time he called me short, I replied, “Go tell that to the One who made me that way.” (Mike drop)
I was never bullied again.
You see, bullying, like antisemitism, is a power dynamic. The bullies put others down to lift themselves up; now they’re in control. But the second the one who is bullied is confident in who they are, the second the one who is bullied is not fazed by any criticism because they know the truth, the power dynamic of the bully and bullied is shattered.
That’s what I meant when I said that my team has already accomplished a lot in the fight against antisemitism, against Amaleik. Whether it’s the student in Harvard who doesn’t shy away from his Israeli identity. Whether it’s the gay CEO who lost his allies but is the proudest of Jews. Whether it’s the woman in middle of no-Jew Florida who is organizing trips of students to learn more about their heritage. Or whether it’s the liberal West Coaster who decided to start wearing a Magen Dovid necklace even though his support of Israel has lost him so many of his friends.
Moshe held his hands up high. We need to do the same. To not be apologetic, but to be proud of our heritage. To not be so enamored by the Western world, but to be deeply, deeply, deeply knowledgeable of the Torah. To not be scared, but to hold our Jewish heads high.
***
I arrived in Newark airport Friday morning. I usually find a quiet corner to put on my talis and tefillin; I daven, when in public, without shuckling, to not draw even more attention to myself. But not yesterday. I davened in a public space, swaying like I sway at Ner Tamid, davening with my head held high. Because we are so done with metaphors.
by Ner Tamid | Feb 16, 2025 | Sermons
Matti Friedman, in his book, Who by Fire, describes a few week period in the life of Lenord Cohen’s life. Leonord Cohen was born to an Orthodox family in Montreal in 1936. He attended a Jewish school and was a member of Shareo Shomayim, and Orthodox shul. However, Leonord did not follow in his parents’ footsteps. He was not observant, nor did he have an especially close relationship to the Jewish People.
Matti’s story focuses on a short period of Leonord Cohen’s life in 1973. Leonord was 39, which at the time, was kind of old for a folk singer. He was an icon, having produced numerous hits that made him wildly popular. He was wealthy; his songs were used for the soundtracks of blockbuster films. Most normal people would be thrilled. He was miserable.
He was vacationing on a Greek island, surrounded by opulence, by women, drugs, everything that normally made him happy, but he felt empty. He wanted to write more poetry, but he felt like he had nothing left to say. He wanted to compose more music, but he felt like he exhausted his capabilities.
Instead of kicking back and enjoying his life, he jumped on a plane and flew to Israel. He arrived in Israel in the middle of the Yom Kippur war. He had intended to do what so many of us have done this past year; he had hoped to volunteer on a Kibbutz. But he was spotted by some Israeli musicians who begged him to come along with them to visits soldiers on the front line. He acquiesced. Leonord Cohen and this improvised band of Israelis traveled from army base to army base with no fanfare. They’d show up at a base, sometimes a small outpost, and just start playing music. The soldiers would grab some flashlights and shine them on Leonord Cohen and his band, they’d play for a few hours, often without an amp, and then they’d leave.
He was there for only a few weeks, but it literally changed his life. In Israel, he found his missing inspiration. Shortly after his trip, he put out a new album, which included the classic “Who by Fire” a nod to the Yom Kippur davening. The album was titled, New Skin for the Old Ceremony, an allusion to a circumcision, a reference to his own spiritual rebirth. Instead of retiring at 39, he continued composing music until his 80’s.
Leonord Cohen was a complicated man, and I would not describe him as a role model. But that experience of being on top of the world, yet feeling broken, and then reinventing himself into something even greater, speaks to an important ideal – the importance of imperfection and brokenness in the process of personal growth.
Yosef, your parents describe you as a renaissance man. You are an exceptional runner on the Beth Tfiloh track team, you play trumpet – not an easy instrument, you just came in first place in BT’s Chidon Hatanach, you learn the daf!!, you are a leader, you cook, you are polite and kind and thoughtful. You have it all. And that’s amazing. But there is also a danger in having so many talents.
Rav Menachem Mendel of Kotzk used to say, “There is nothing as whole as a broken heart.” I think an even more accurate statement would be, “There is nothing as broken as a whole heart.” Meaning, the individual who thinks they are perfect, who thinks they have it made, who thinks they have no room for improvement, that is not perfection, that is brokenness. The individual who realizes that there is so much more to do, that there is so much room for growth, that there is so much that is incomplete, that is whole.
When G-d gave us the Torah, it was the greatest moment in human history; G-d communicated with 2 million Jews! G-d came down to earth! The Talmud describes the zuhama, the spiritual filth that entered the world through the snake in the garden of Eden, as being banished from the world in that moment. We were at the top.
But being at the top creates an illusion of perfection, thinking that we have it made is the worst possible mindset. And so, those original holy tablets had to be broken. And only then, with those shattered tablets in hand, could the Jewish People start again, and this time succeed.
The recognition that something is incomplete, that we are lacking, that we are in need, is the essence of our relationship with Hashem. There is a famous question that many ask – how can it be that the peak of Jewish prayer is so self-serving, it’s filled with personal requests? The Shemoneh Esrei is a laundry list of the things we need. Yes, we say thank you, we say, G-d, You’re great, but the climax of the Amidah, is, “Please, G-d, I need something from You.” Health, wealth, whatever. That’s prayer?! That’s the meeting point between man and his Creator? When we ask for things?!
Rav Yitzchak Hutner, one of the great Jewish philosophers of the 20th century, responds, yes, that is precisely how we meet G-d. He writes as follows: “Af al gav d’b’chol ha’inyanim yecholto shel adam nimneit al tzad shleimuto, even though with all other matters, a person’s ability is defined by their perfection… Mikol makom, b’inyan hat’filah, when it comes to prayer, y’cholet ha’amidah lifnei hamelech nizonet davka mei’chesrono, our ability to stand before the King is nourished specifically from our deficiencies. V’lu yetzuyar adam she’eino chaser lo klum, and if, in theory, there were a person who was not lacking whatsoever, harei shleimut zu shel amidah lifeni hamelech neu’lah l’fanav, the ability and the perfection of standing before the King would be locked before him.”
Meaning, Shemoneh Esrei is not about asking for our needs. It is an exercise in acknowledging that we have needs. And that takes an incredible amount of emotional and spiritual maturity. Spiritual greatness, Rav Hutner is explaining, is defined not by what we have, but by the recognition of how much more we need.
That’s what Leonord Cohen realized on that Greek island. There is no such thing as being whole, there is no such thing as being complete, there is no such thing as having made it. There is nothing more broken than a whole heart. It was only when he saw his brothers in distress, fighting for their lives, fighting for the Jewish future, it was only when he realized that he was so small, so insignificant, so incomplete, it was only then that he was able to continue to build and to grow. Because there is nothing as whole as a broken heart.
Had Leonord Cohen not traveled to Israel he would never have composed the song that I imagine we all know, Hallelujah. In that song, which he wrote after his trip to Israel, he echoes the sentiment of the Kotzker Rebbe and he sings, “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”
The other week, the lights above my head were not working. Some people were embarrassed, why are things never running smoothly around here?
But that’s my favorite part of our shul – we don’t sugarcoat the fact that things are not always perfect. And that’s what allows this shul to be one of the most authentic places on earth. That’s what allows us to be a growth-oriented community. Because growth can only take place by acknowledging the cracks, by acknowledging the brokenness. Those moments of darkness can propel us to blinding heights.
It is normal to feel lacking from time to time, to feel hungry for more. Most often we try to silence that hunger. With food, with movies, with a bunch of other stuff I won’t mention – whatever it takes to silence that uncomfortable gnawing feeling. What a tragic mistake.
Because that feeling is the greatest gift of all. When we feel unsettled, when our soul is rumbling, when we feel lost and yearning for something else, that is the crack we need to let the light in, those moments of existential crisis, if we acknowledge them, can propel us to the greatest of spiritual heights.
And that is my hope and blessing for you, Yosef. Because Yosef, you have it all; brains, skills, heart. You can coast to an amazing life. But I hope and pray that you do not coast. I hope and pray that you do not forget the lesson of your parsha, how the Torah given on a mountain is not half as potent as the Torah rebuilt out of shards, how we need to climb and climb and climb. And then, when we reach the top, we need to start all over again. How we need to constantly ask ourselves, in what way am I broken, in what way am I missing, in what way am I dependent on others. And then in those cracks, I am confident, you will let in the most brilliant light.
by Ner Tamid | Feb 2, 2025 | Sermons
Every once in a while, my wife goes away for a few days and leaves me with the kids. Before she leaves, she sits me down to review all the things I need to do to cover for her – which is a LOT. But after reviewing the telephone-book-sized instruction manual she left me with, things go smoothly. Meals, snacks, friends, homework, everyone’s smiling. Next morning, outfits, breakfast, super smooth. And then, inevitably, one child looks up, with those eyes, and asks, “Aba, who’s going to make my double French braid?”
“No problem. I’ll do your hair.”
And that’s when everything goes out the window.
“MOOOOOMMMMY! I MISS MY MOMMY!!!”
I try to reason with them to calm them down – which by the way is a terrible strategy, never works, and I tell them, “Girls, it’s just your hair, it’s just a braid. Who cares?”
“JUST MY HAIR?!?!?! IT’S NOT JUST A BRAID!!!!
All of us who have been glued to our screens these past weeks, watching the hostages get freed, know that my children are right, that it is not just a braid.
For those who do not know what I am referring to – About a week ago some social media accounts started discussing the ‘Mystery Braider.’ They were referring to the fact that many of the female hostages who were released, both in November of 2023 and those released last week, had their hair done in braids.
Apparently, a young woman who was with them in captivity, made sure to take care of these women’s hair before they were released. The Mystery Braider was Agam Berger, a 21-year-old, who was captured from the Nachal Oz army base. One hostage who was released before her, shared something about her even more remarkable than her hair braiding. While in captivity, Agam decided she would start keeping Shabbos and Kosher. When her captors demanded that she cook on Shabbos, she refused. When they offered her bread on Pesach, she did not eat it. When meat was served to them in the few meals they had each week, she ate nothing.
But it was the braids that caught everyone’s attention. It was understood that these braids were meant to be an act of defiance – to demonstrate to Hamas that they cannot break us. So much so, that the family urgently pleaded for people to remove all posts about Agam from social media, as they were concerned that Hamas may see her as a symbol of resistance and not release her.
It was more than an act of defiance. Those braids stood for something so much greater.
In my mind, I have these two images side by side. The young women, with smiles, and braided hair, embraced by their families; tears and kisses and laughter. And next to that image is an image of the chaotic and horrific scene that took place a short while earlier as hostages were paraded through a bloodthirsty crowd, shoving and chanting Allah Akhbar. That chanting crowd symbolized the depth of depravity that humans can stoop, and those braids symbolized the ability to retain a sense of dignity in the darkest of places.
There is a long tradition of braids in Jewish culture and history.
Every Shabbos, the loaves of bread that we eat are braided. According to some sources, the reason we braid our Challah takes us all the way back to the first moments of human history.
The Talmud in Meseches Eruvin quotes Rav Shimon ben Menasya who says that right after Chava, was created, before being introduced to Adam, G-d Himself braided her hair to make her look more attractive to Adam. Braiding hair is clearly a divine act.
But our Sages take this even further.
The Talmud in Meseches Shabbos teaches us that braiding hair on Shabbos is forbidden. What melacha, what prohibited activity can possibly be involved in weaving hair?
The Gemara explains that the textual source for G-d braiding Chava’s hair is the word vayiven, which literally means that G-d built. Building is forbidden on Shabbos, and braiding is a form of building.
Sounds like a stretch, right?
Listen to what Rav Kook has to say about this (Ayn Ayah, 10:17). When we think of the act of building, we think of bricks and mortar, we think of metal supports and stone floors. We think of a structure that protects us from the elements. But that is a primitive perspective. Building, the Talmud is teaching us, involves aesthetics. It involves beauty. The emotional inspiration, the colors, the fabric, the design, all of those are integral to the act of building.
In this opening moment of history, G-d conveyed to Adam and Chava what it means to be a human. We are not animals, we do not live by the survival of the fittest, we do not view the world through utilitarian glasses alone. As humans, we need to elevate ourselves, we need to observe the Divine beauty that exists around us, and we need to create beauty. We need to broaden ourselves through all the emotions and Divine beauty that the world has to offer. So yes, braiding is building, because a world void of beauty is a body void of its soul.
In the deep dark cellars of Gaza, Agam Berger stumbled upon this reality. She found G-d, and she found G-dliness in everything and everyone around her. Braided hair was Agam’s way of saying, you may have taken my body, you may have beaten me, you may have abused me, but you cannot take my Divine spark. You cannot take away the beauty of my soul.
***
Today, we are welcoming a young woman into our faith, we are celebrating the Bat Mitzvah of Liora Sipple. Liora, you remind me of the Mystery Braider. Liora is an exceptionally talented artist. She has won awards and accolades for her sewing and weaving. She works with clay, with yarn, with paint. Liora knows the secret of the braids – how art, how beauty, expresses our Divine spark. But like Agam, she not only sees it in herself, she sees Divinity in others. Liora is extraordinarily thoughtful. She creates art not for herself but mostly for others.
And it’s no surprise. This past week, I met with a group of communal leaders in another city who were interested in making their communities more welcoming. I shared with them some of the practices we have in our model shul. One of the things I highlighted was how we try to ensure that everyone has meals – whether it’s the monthly shul-wide lunches and dinners, whether it’s the email invitation that goes out weekly to those who live on their own, or whether it’s our WhatsApp chat where people can find a host or guest with the click of a finger. But well before we had all these beautiful systems in place, I had a single tool at my disposal. Whenever someone was visiting our shul for the first time or someone was looking for a meal, I knew I could always call Ian and Naomi Sipple who would, in a heartbeat, agree to host.
***
When Agam was released this past Thursday, she was reunited with her parents and then flown by helicopter to a hospital in Petach Tikvah. They gave her a whiteboard if she wanted to write a message to share with the millions of Jews worldwide who were waiting for her with bated breath. On the whiteboard, she wrote the words, Derech Emunah bacharti, I chose a path of faith, a quote from the book of Tehillim.
Liora, today you are making the choice to walk in the way of faith, following in the footsteps of Agam, following in the footsteps of your parents, following in the footsteps of G-d. To be a Jew means to build, not just a state and not just an army, but to build braids, to build a world of beauty, to find expression for all of our G-d given talents and emotions, that no matter what darkness and challenges we face, to see the Divine within ourselves and within every person around us.
