by Motzen | Jun 19, 2022 | Sermons
Burnout is defined as, ‘Physical, emotional or mental exhaustion, accompanied by decreased motivation, lowered performance and negative attitudes towards oneself and others.’ Who here has ever experienced burnout?
In the past 24 hours, the following news items have been published; an article in the Economic Times describing parental burnout, a widely-published study showing that the profession with the highest rate of burnout is… teachers! And (and this is for you Shoshi) the super-popular K-Pop band, BTS, is taking a break because of… you guessed it, burnout. (If you don’t know what K-pop is, ask Shoshi.)
The APA, the American Psychological Association, is reporting all-time highs of burnout across all professions. And while it may be on the rise, burnout is nothing new. It’s part of the human condition; the feeling of being alive and energized goes hand-in-hand with the inevitable feeling of being turned off and deflated. Burnout is something we may never solve, but it’s something we can learn to live with. It’s something we can learn to minimize, and not only minimize but to utilize – in living an even more energetic and turned-on kind of life.
Today, I’d like to share with you a story within a story within a story within a story. Like the Russian Babushka, only that the deeper you go, the larger the story gets.
Story #1 – Moshe’s Burnout:
The Jewish People complain, which is nothing new. They’re unhappy with the mann falling from the sky. The mann that tastes, according to our tradition, like anything you want. The mann that allows them to not work because food rains down on them every day. Moshe can’t take it. It’s not the first time the Jewish People complain, but this time it gets to him, and he lets G-d know. In the words of Moshe: “Why have You dealt ill with Your servant… that You have laid the burden of all these people upon me? Did I produce all these people… that You should say to me, ‘Carry them … as a caregiver carries an infant,’ … I cannot carry all these people by myself… it’s too much for me. If You would deal thus with me, kill me rather, I beg You, and let me see no more of my wretchedness!”
It does not get more burned out than that.
However, a few verses later, we find a completely transformed Moshe. His own brother and sister question his choices. They criticize him. The Moshe we heard from a moment before, would certainly lose it at this point. This is an ‘Et tu, Brute’ moment like no other! His own brother and sister have turned on him as well!! And yet – Moshe is as calm as a Buddhist monk. He doesn’t flinch. Not only is he calm, he has the wherewithal to pray on behalf of his sister, begging G-d to forgive and heal her for her sins – which she committed against him!!
What happened? How did Moshe transform from throwing in the towel, being sick and tired of dealing with the pettiness of the Jewish People and all the personal accusations it came with, to someone who can so graciously deal with such a personal attack?
To answer that questions, we move on to story #2 – Eldad and Meidad Share a Prophecy:
When Moshe tries to resign, G-d instructs him to gather 70 elders. Many commentators explain that these 70 elders were appointed to help Moshe. Moshe was saying the job is too tough, so G-d says, no problem, I’ll find you an assistant rabbi. 70 assistant rabbis to be exact.
The problem with this approach is that we don’t find these elders doing anything. He appoints them and then they exit stage left.
I believe the real solution lies with two enigmatic people, a little glossed over detail in the narrative that goes like this: These70 people were instructed to join Moshe, but two people held out, their names were Eldad and Meidad. 68 people are gathering around Moshe in front of all of the Jewish, and Eldad and Meidad choose not to. And then, suddenly, Eldad and Meidad, who are still in their own tents, start to experience prophecy. Moshe is informed that these two are not joining the rest of the elders and the story continues. Why is this little sidebar important?
The answer is story #3 – Eldad and Meidad’s lineage.
Who are these two people, Eldad and Meidad? (Are you all still with me?)
Yonasan ben Uziel, one of the oldest commentaries on the Chumash, tells us that Eldad and Meidad were half-brothers to Moshe. Listen to this wild story, and hold on tight: Before Moshe is conceived, Pharaoh decrees that all boys born to the Jews should be thrown into the river. The Gemara tells us that Amram, Moshe’s father, who was also the leader of the Jewish People, divorces his wife, Yocheved. “Why would anyone bring children into a world where they would be killed?” reasoned Amram. And so, he thought it would be better not be married at all. Being that Amram was the leader of the Jewish People, the rest of the Jewish People followed suit. Every Jew divorced their spouse.
Everyone, except for Yocheved, his own wife. That’s right. Yocheved thought her husband’s idea was a really bad one. And so, she went ahead and married someone else, and Yocheved and this man had two sons, Eldad and Meidad.
Imagine this – the entirety of the Jewish People are getting divorced, and this woman says no, it’s wrong, and she goes ahead and finds a new spouse and brings two boys into the world. This defiant, brave, individualistic, woman, is the mother of Eldad and Meidad. There is no doubt as to where their independence, their ability to decide what is right and wrong for them, where all that comes from; how 68 other people dutifully follow Moshe’s instructions, but these two individuals decline.
I imagine as Moshe heard that these two were not following others, he remembered the story that his mother told him, how she stood apart and was true to her beliefs. I imagine that caused Moshe to do the same. To ask himself, who am I? What are my talents, my skills? Am I true to my beliefs? To what I’m here for?
Both the mystics and psychologists, though they use different language, understand that burnout can be caused when we’re not listening to ourselves, when we’re living on autopilot, or even worse, when we’re living someone else’s life, someone else’s dreams or expectations. No matter how successful we may be, if we’re not living our life, a life that is true to ourselves, it doesn’t feel good. It actually feels physically, emotionally, and mentally exhausting.
It takes courage and independence to listen to oneself. Sometimes listening to oneself takes us on a wild journey, far, far away from where we are right now. And sometimes, as in the case of Moshe, it opens our eyes to what we’re already doing, letting us know that we’ve chosen the right path, and it pushes us to continue on that path but for the right reason, because it’s our calling, it’s who we are.
What snaps Moshe out of his burnout is listening to himself, by being himself, like his half-brothers and like his mother before him.
One story to go: Where does Yocheved attain this strength of character? This ability to defy the leader of the Jewish People because she knows what’s right. How does she have so much self-confidence and awareness?
Story # 4 is the story of Yocheved’s Lineage. Yocheved is the granddaughter of Yaakov and the daughter of Levi. What do we know about Levi?
There is only one Biblical story about this man. His sister Dinah is violated, and Levi risks his life for her sake. He puts it all on the line for the sake of someone else. It’s no coincidence that his descendants are chosen to be the priests in the Bais Hamikdash; their great-grandfather lived his life for others and this becomes a trait in the family; a life lived in the service of others.
And here we find the great paradox. How does one learn about themselves? I googled it. Here’s one of many similar-sounding lists that popped up: 1) List your strengths. 2) Identify your core values. 3) Identify your beliefs? 4) Meditate. 5) Practice mindfulness and awareness. 6)Accept who you are…
You know what Judaism says about this approach? It’s all wrong. Or more accurately, it’s not the full picture. You know how you really learn who you are? Instead of focusing so much on yourself, serve others. Give to others. Live with and for others. In that space between you and others, that’s where you learn who you are. Let me tell you, I thought I knew who I was before I got married. Ha! Then I thought I knew who I was until I had children. Double ha.
Yocheved had the confidence to be her own person because she came from a family that served others. And that’s the great paradox of self-discovery: You don’t learn who you are by turning inward, you learn who you are by focusing on others.
A story within a story with a story. Moshe was burned out. Big time. But he was reminded of his mother. He was reminded of the importance of self-awareness and self-discovery. Burnout, if we want to take advantage of it, asks us if our life is aligned with our dreams, with who we are. And perhaps even more importantly, like his grandfather before him, Moshe was reminded to stop thinking about himself and instead to focus on others.
Many people will tell you that the response to burnout is self-care. That’s partially true. An even better antidote to burnout is the exact opposite. To stop obsessing about oneself and to give and give to others.
Shoshi, you too are a story within a story within a story. Your grandparents on your father’s side were pillars of their community in Randallstown. I just met your mother’s parents, and they seem to be the loveliest people. Your parents are both givers, an educator, a nurse; it’s a life of service. And you, like your parents and grandparents, are remarkably independent, you think for yourself, you do what you believe in, and you’re a giver, you’re a phenomenal friend and sensitive to every person and even animal around you. Those are not just antidotes to burnout, they are the ingredients of an exceptional, meaningful, and joy-filled life.
I’ll conclude with a final story. Someone once wrote a letter to the Lubavitcher Rebbe: “I would like the Rebbe’s help,” he wrote. “I wake up each day sad and anxious. I can’t concentrate. I find it hard to pray.
I feel that life has lost its joy. I need help.”
The Rebbe wrote a profound reply without using a single word. Somehow, he knew that this was not a case of clinical depression, but someone who was down. The Rebbe didn’t write anything. He circled the first word of every sentence in red and sent the letter back. Every sentence began with the letter I. You know why you’re feeling this way? I, I, I, I. That was the Rebbe’s response.
Shoshi, never forget where you come from, never lose sight of who you are. And remember, the key to self-discovery and a key to happiness is to focus less on ‘I’ and more on everyone else.
by Motzen | Jun 7, 2022 | Sermons
A few weeks ago, a couple in New Delhi, India, sued their own son and daughter-in-law. The reason? These parents had spent their life savings to have their son trained as a pilot in the United States, they financed his lavish wedding in India, they paid for his luxury car and exotic honeymoon, and yet, after six years of marriage, their son and daughter-in-law do not have any intentions of having a child. And so, they are suing their son and daughter-in-law for “mental harassment,” to the tune of $650,000 in damages.
What do you think?
I think the children should counter-sue. I do.
As parents, we spend a lot of money on our children; clothing, food, Jewish education, college… And of course, we have a dream of how our children will end up. It would be irresponsible to not care, and just throw our hands up in the air, and say whatever happens is okay. However, if our “investment” into our children’s lives is contingent on how they “perform” then we have failed them as parents. We may not plan on suing our children, but if we feel “ripped off” because of our child’s grades, their career choice, their choice of spouse, or their level of religiosity, if we say or even think, “I don’t understand, I have invested so much time and energy, why are they acting this way?!” then we have abdicated the most basic responsibility of parenting, and that is to love our children unconditionally. In the words of our Sages, Ahava she’eino teluyah b’davar, love with no strings attached.
So no, I do not think the children should actually sue their parents. But if anyone has fallen short in their responsibilities in this story it would seem to be the parents who loved their child like an investor loves his stock portfolio.
There is an organization based out of New York that helps parents who are dealing with one of the saddest possible realities, parental alienation – when a child chooses to shut their parents out of their life. It is nothing short of heartbreaking to hear about a child who just simply refuses to speak to his or her parent. Often this happens in the case of a divorce; a child gets sucked into the parents’ dispute, picks a side, and distances themself from their other parent. But sometimes, the parent has no idea why this is happening. And I would hate to oversimplify, but sometimes I wonder out loud –
When your child came home with a C on a report card, how did you react? Disappointed, sure that’s okay. But how did you convey your feelings?
Did you shower attention – positive attention – on your child all the time or only when they accomplished things that made you proud? At other times, they were not sure you even knew they existed.
How did you react to decisions your child made that you did not approve of? Did you yell and scream or did you try to understand?
In short, was your love for your child tied to and limited to specific expectations? Was it a love that was contingent, transactional? Or was it a love with no strings attached?
We read today the Book of Rus. It is a book, our Sages explain, that is meant to teach us how to perform chesed, kindness. There are many stories that could have been chosen to accomplish this. There is no shortage of tales in Jewish history that involve people doing remarkable acts for one another. But there is something unique about the chesed performed in this book. When Boaz describes the kindness performed by Rus for her mother-in-law, he describes it as chesed shel emes, literally, true kindness.
What does true kindness mean? Our Sages explain that often when we are kind to others, friends, spouses, and even children, our kindness is incomplete, there is a part of us that is expecting reciprocation. If we are honest with ourselves, it’s hard to avoid. And this is why Rus is chosen as the model of kindness. Her kindness was not regular kindness that is somewhat transactional. It was chesed shel emes, it was true kindness, absolute kindness. There was zero expectation on Rus’s part to receive anything in return. If anything, she was losing so much by following her mother-in-law to the land of Israel. It was an investment she knew – or at least she thought – would have a negative return. But Rus forged forward, she gave and gave and gave, never looking over her shoulder, never accusing her mother-in-law, explicitly or implicitly, of not doing enough in return. Chesed shel Emes. A kindness with no strings attached.
You know why we read this book on Shavuos? There are many reasons, but the reason that speaks to me more than any other is as follows. Today we celebrate the beginning of our relationship with G-d. Thousands of years ago, our ancestors stood at Har Sinai, G-d lifted the mountain over their head, to symbolize a Chuppah, a wedding canopy. What’s the nature of this relationship? How do we characterize this bond that each of us have with Hashem?
One could justifiably assume that it is a contingent relationship, that it is only if we fulfill the Mitzvos that we will receive G-d’s love. But we’d be making a mistake. Yisrael, af al pi shchata, Yisrael hu. Our Sages teach us that even if a Jew sins, even if a Jew commits the most horrible crimes, the bond, the connection, the relationship, the love is never severed. Yes, G-d has expectations of us, 613 of them to be exact. Expectations are healthy, they reflect a belief in one’s abilities. But even when we fall short, the bond, the connection, the love is still there.
I think I’ve shared with you before the letter that Amy Krouse Rosenthal published in the New York Times, titled, You May Want to Marry My Husband. She wrote as follows:
“I have been trying to write this for a while, but the morphine and lack of juicy cheeseburgers (what has it been now, five weeks without real food?) have drained my energy and interfered with whatever prose prowess remains. Additionally, the intermittent micronaps that keep whisking me away midsentence are clearly not propelling my work forward as quickly as I would like. But they are, admittedly, a bit of trippy fun. Still, I have to stick with it, because I’m facing a deadline, in this case, a pressing one. I need to say this (and say it right) while I have a) your attention, and b) a pulse.”
She continues: “I have been married to the most extraordinary man for 26 years. I was planning on at least another 26 together.
Want to hear a sick joke? A husband and wife walk into the emergency room in the late evening on Sept. 5, 2015. A few hours and tests later, the doctor clarifies that the unusual pain the wife is feeling on her right side isn’t the no-biggie appendicitis they suspected but rather ovarian cancer.
So many plans instantly went poof.
No trip with my husband and parents to South Africa. No reason, now, to apply for the Harvard Loeb Fellowship. No dream tour of Asia with my mother. No writers’ residencies at those wonderful schools in India, Vancouver, Jakarta. No wonder the word cancer and cancel look so similar.
This is when we entered what I came to think of as Plan “Be,” existing only in the present. As for the future, allow me to introduce you to the gentleman of this article, Jason Brian Rosenthal.”
She goes on to describe in great detail how wonderful her husband is; how he’s a sharp dresser, the most thoughtful person she’s ever met, a great father, an even greater spouse.
And then she concludes: “I want more time with Jason. I want more time with my children. I want more time sipping martinis at the Green Mill Jazz Club on Thursday nights. But that is not going to happen. I probably have only a few days left being a person on this planet. So why I am doing this?
I am wrapping this up on Valentine’s Day, and the most genuine, non-vase-oriented gift I can hope for is that the right person reads this, finds Jason, and another love story begins.”
Ten days after this letter was published, Amy died in bed, surrounded by her children and husband.
Chesed shel emes. No strings attached. This is pure love, as Amy knew that she would never receive anything in return. She just wanted to give to her husband.
We need not wait until someone is no longer with us, or is almost no longer with us, to perform chesed shel emes. Like Rus, and like G-d, we too can give unconditionally today. We can stop keeping score with our spouse now. We can stop second-guessing our friends every time we interact with them. We can stop tying down our relationship with our children to our dreams. We can do this immediately. We can. We can all love, if we so choose, with no strings attached.
by Motzen | May 29, 2022 | Sermons
I’d like to share with you two personal stories that took place – and could only take place – in Jerusalem, Yerushalayim ir hak’dosha. The first took story place the very first time I traveled to Yerushalayim on my own. I was studying in a Yeshiva near Ashdod and had no familiarity with the geography of Jerusalem. After a few weeks in Yeshiva, we went on break, and I took a bus to Yerushalayim to meet up with some friends. I followed the directions my friends gave me, got off the bus, called my friend: “I’m here.”
Which street are you at?
(look up) “Hamelech Gorga.”
Say what?
“Hamelech Gorga.”
Sruli, there is no street in Yerushalayim with that name.
“I don’t know what to tell you. That’s what the sign says. Hamelech Gorga.”
All of sudden, my friend starts laughing hysterically. King George, you fool!!! King George!!!
Oh, That’s right. A gimmel with an apostrophe makes a soft g sound. Hamelech George. King George. Got it…
Why is this street in Jerusalem called King George street? I believe, I am not sure, but I believe it has something to do with the fact that on June 25, 1943, King George VI, visited Jerusalem. And if you’re standing on King George street, you could turn off of the street and go down Rechov David Hamelech, King David Street, named after the king who lived there and likely walked that path. And you could turn off that street and go down a street called Shivtei Yisrael, named after the Jewish People divided into twelve tribes, and you will literally walk on the same pathways that the tribes of Israel walked as they made their way to the Bais Hamikdash. You could find Rechov Rabbi Akiva, named after the sage, who revolutionized Torah learning and supported a rebellion against the Romans, who also walked down that street. Need I go on?
I live on Lincoln Ave. I am fairly certain that Abraham Lincoln never walked down this street. But in Yerushalayim, every step, every time you kick up a little dust, you can’t help but wonder who stepped here before me, who breathed this air, who touched these walls?
Yerushalayim is a place that connects us to our heritage like no other. Every street sign reminds us of the people who came before us. Every step retraces the steps of our ancestors all the way back to Avraham Avinu.
Story number two takes place six months later. I was spending Pesach in Yerushalayim. One day, I’m walking through the streets of the Old City, and I’m stopped by a middle-aged man who says, “Kotel?”
He clearly doesn’t speak English or Hebrew, so I point him in the right direction. (point in five directions)
He starts walking and I realize he’s not going to make it. So I turn around and start walking with him. As we walk together, I try to make some small talk, only that he doesn’t speak English, only Spanish, and I don’t speak any Spanish. But we try.
Eventually, I pull out a pad of paper from my pocket and we start drawing pictures of our life stories. I learn that he’s not observant but traditional. I learn that he has two little kids. I learn that he’s divorced. I learn that he’s struggling. And this Pictionary-dialogue goes on and on and on.
45 minutes later, we stop “talking,” we embrace each other, he gives me a kiss on the cheek, and he walks down the steps to the Kotel.
Two strangers, but in actuality, two brothers, both descendants of the same great-great-great-grandparents, reunited in the city that reunites us all.
Yerushalayim is where our ancestors would gather for a mega-family reunion three times a year. Yerushalayim is where Heaven, according to our tradition, meets earth. Yerushalayim is the ultimate place of connection, where we realize we are not alone; we are part of a history that goes back thousands of years, we are part of a people, who we may not know, but no matter what, are our brothers and sisters.
This notion of connection and belonging has been on my mind a lot recently, especially these past two weeks. Something is terribly broken in this country, and that is an understatement like no other. In just a few days, for a man to walk into a grocery store and indiscriminately shoot and kill ten black people. For an 18-year-old to walk into a school and murder 2 teachers and 19 children… And for us, if we were honest, to start getting used to this to some extent…
I am not naïve enough to suggest a single solution. There are hundreds of things that must change; the political gridlock in Washington where they cannot even discuss what if anything needs to be done about guns in this country, the mental health crisis that is killing people left and right – and the survivors are far from well, the hatred that fills our social media feeds, that fills the air, the ideation of violence, the list goes on and on.
It’s overwhelming to think about what needs to change to heal society. So what do we do? Do we just stand here paralyzed by the vastness of the problem? Do we just default to “thoughts and prayers” or, “thoughts, prayers, and angry social media posts?”
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps one piece of the puzzle, one small piece of this enormous crisis, something small that can help cut through the inability of people with different ideologies to talk to one another and make needed changes in Washington, something tiny that can help people who yell and scream and curse at one another online and in person to start arguing peacefully, something miniscule that can allow children who feel bullied to recognize that they have people who care about them, a slight step towards ensuring that adults who feel isolated and alone are part of something bigger than themselves, is to create a sense of identity.
A sense of belonging.
A sense of… Yerushalayim. And yes, I know, Yerushalayim is the most divided city in the world. Not that Yerushalayim. The Yerushalayim that we pray for; the city of peace, the city of connection. That’s what we need. Desperately.
Bruce Feiler, in a New York Times article that was so popular it was turned into a book, describes the vast research demonstrating that a sense of belonging is one of the most critical factors in a person’s well-being. The more a family has a shared narrative, the better off the children are. The more a child feels like they are part of something bigger than themselves, the less depression, the less loneliness, the less drugs, the less anger. A sense of connection. A sense of belonging. A sense of Yerushalayim; the city that bridges heaven and earth, that city that in a future we pray for, will be the gathering place not only for all Jews, but for all the nations of the world.
We’re celebrating a Bar Mitzvah, Mica Lewin. Mica, you are an impressive young man. You like Shakespeare, you wrote scripts for TV shows that will one day make you millions, you used to make comics in third grade and sell them, you’re funny, and you have an easy smile.
You did a really nice job leining. And I know it wasn’t easy for you. You worked really really hard to get here.
Mica goes to public school and the amount of work and effort he put in to read this Haftorah is very impressive. And I learned something about you, Mica. That you go to school every day with a Kippah on your head. And not just a Naftali Bennet-barely visible kippah. You wear a KIPPAH. That takes character, that takes strength. And I am confident that you have received that from your parents, both in their own ways, who fought and fight to hold on to their faith. You have a family narrative of perseverance, and you should be proud of where you come from.
But I want you to think about something every day when you put on this Kippah and as you walk through the halls of school, one of the only visible Jews in the building. That Kippah connects you. It connects you to every single person in this room; some of them you know and some of them you don’t. But when you finished leining, ALL OF US sang for you, we are all part of your family. And it’s not just us. There are millions of people who consider themselves your family. Millions. That Kippah of yours should remind you of the many others who you are connected. That Kippah of yours should remind you of your past; of the generations of amazing people who came before you; people like you, who faced challenges and persevered. Can you think about that every time you put that Kippah on your head? Every time someone stares at you? Every time someone says, what’s that strange thing on your head?
What about us? Where do we find our sense of connection? Our sense of belonging? Where and how do we grow the necessary muscles to live in this broken world? Where and how do we fix this broken world in our small corner?
Of course, what we really need is Yerushalayim, the real Yerushalyim to be rebuilt. We need the Bais Hamikdash, the temple to stand, giving us, all of us, a sense of belonging, a sense of connection. Our Sages, in their wisdom, came up with something to hold us over until that time, something that can create a microcosm of what will be – they nicknamed it the Mikdash Me’at, the small Temple, otherwise known as the shul.
Let me paint for you a picture. Feel free to close your eyes as I paint this delicious picture.
The other night, there was a two-minute break between Mincha and Maariv. In those 120 seconds, I ran to the back of shul to welcome back a regular who missed a few days because he was sick. I don’t always know when someone misses a few Shabboses in a row, I wish I did. But sometimes it’s just hard to keep track. But if you’re a regular during the week, not only do I know when you’re gone, all the regulars start asking about you and following up.
As I’m walking back to my seat, it occurs to me that no one is in the room for themselves; Mincha and Maariv during the week is not exciting. There is no kiddush. There is no singing. There is no sermon. Everyone is there because of a sense of responsibility to others. Responsibility to a loved one who died who they are now saying kaddish for, responsibility to the community; people come because they know that we struggle to get a minyan during the week, and others who are there because they feel a responsibility to Hashem. No one is there for themselves.
I look around. I see a 60-year-old talking to a thirty-year-old, two people who used to argue over masks are now joking around. I overhear two people arguing about which party is to blame for the obscene gas prices; “It’s the Democrats!” “It’s the Republicans!” I see people who would otherwise have nothing to do with one another becoming friends, coalescing into something beautiful.
I hesitated to start Maariv. It was just such a touching sight. Such a unique, counter-cultural experience of connection, of belonging, of Yerushalayim.
I am not suggesting that if we get everyone to minyan, we will solve this country’s problems. But I do believe we need more connection with one another. I do believe we need a stronger sense of belonging. I do believe we need a greater sense of identity – and this is especially true for children these days. I do believe that if we strengthen our sense of self and sense of belonging, we will have a much healthier society. And I do believe that minyan, weekday minyan, is one of the few places on earth where this takes place.
Tomorrow morning, on Yom Yerushalayim, we will be welcoming Beth Tfiloh, Shomrei Emunah, and Suburban Orthodox, for an uplifting tefilah with Yehuda Green. We will thank G-d for the Yerushalayim that is; a place where we can, on some level, feel a sense of belonging and connection. We will pray for a rebuilding of Yerushalayim, the real Yersuhalayim; not just a place but a time when people will disagree but get along, when people will not feel so lost, they will live with meaning, when schools will be places of growth, and school shootings a distant memory. But if you really want to do more than just pray, come back tomorrow evening, and join the fifteen or twenty of us, men and women, who are creating a sense of connection and belonging right here and right now.
by Motzen | May 8, 2022 | Sermons
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to have to stop my sermon, I’m feeling a little dizzy.”
Those words may sound familiar to some of you. They were the last words I said last week from this pulpit before everything went black.
The next thing I remember is being surrounded by people, taking my pulse, and calling my name. For better or worse, someone who knows me too well assumed this was actually part of the sermon I was giving; some gimmick to get a point across.
It was not. It was a pretty lousy experience to pass out in shul while giving a drasha. But I’m okay now, I really am, and I appreciate all of your concern.
But it was unsettling though, right?
It gets worse.
Exactly one week before this incident, just a few feet away from where I fainted, another unsettling event took place. At Mincha on Shabbos afternoon, someone was carrying the Sefer Torah and slipped on one of the stairs. Our crown jewel, the centerpiece of our shul, the Torah scroll fell on the floor. Since then, I have had recurring flashbacks of the chazzan and the Torah sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs. And I’m not done.
This past Tuesday morning after Shacharis, I came home and noticed that my wife had gone out quite early. Only that when I came inside, she was still there. Apparently, it wasn’t her who took the van, it was someone else… But don’t worry, we found the van… or more accurately, the police found it, smashed into a 7-11 after a hit and run, in which thankfully, no one was hurt. But our van is no longer with us.
Quite a week. Are you spooked yet?
Now in the larger scheme of things, none of this is terrible. I am alive, my family is healthy, and our Sefer Torah is okay. But I’d like to use this as an opportunity, if I may, to address the age-old question, of why bad things happen to good people. Because all of us have and will have setbacks and difficulties in life. All of us will be faced with a choice of how we respond to those events. I’d venture to say that how we respond to the question lies primarily in how we ask the question.
What I’ve learned over the years is that there are three ways to pose this question; actually, three postures. The first and classic way to ask this question is to point a finger at G-d Almighty and yell, J’accuse! You’re guilty! Lama ha’rei’ota? Why have You brought evil? What did I do?!
I’ll be honest, I’ve never asked this question, not because I’m that righteous. On the contrary, it’s because I know I am not.
What do I owe G-d and what does G-d owe me?
When G-d dropped my soul down into this world, He never told me how healthy I’d be, how comfortable or uncomfortable my life would be. He never even told me how long I’ll be here until He’d send an Uber to pick my soul up. So G-d’s holding up His side just fine.
But He did ask me to do a few things. Not just “be a good person” and to “try your best.” Nope, that’s not what He said. That’s the criteria we make up to make ourselves feel good, not His criteria. He told me exactly what He wants me to do. 248 positive Mitzvos, 365 prohibitions.
I am not holding up this side of the bargain. I am trying. Usually. Sometimes. Not always. I have no right to ask, why did You do this to me.
The only context that this question makes any sense in, is in regard to a child who suffers; a child is not responsible like we are as adults. But as adults, can anyone legitimately say they’ve followed through with their responsibilities? Really?!
I may indeed be the nicest person in the world – which I’m not. But how can I point a finger at G-d and claim injustice using watered-down criteria that I made up and not His.
So no, I am not pointing a finger at G-d this week. I am way too aware of all my many shortcomings to have the audacity to claim that He is in the wrong. No way.
Now there is another similar way of asking this question of why. It’s not directed at G-d, but it’s also directed outward. It goes like this: Why did you drop the Torah? Why did you ask me so many questions before Pesach making me so exhausted? Why did you steal my van?
These questions are fair ones. But we’re usually not very satisfied with the answers we receive from the people we feel who wronged us. If we’re still holding our finger out after they respond, we’ll pose harder questions, like what kind of answer is that, and we’ll get weaker answers.
It’s a fair reaction to tragedy and hardship, but it’s not a very healthy one. Holding our finger out there, wagging it in every which way. It’s going to get tired. We’re going to get tired. We’re going to get bitter; very, very bitter.
Which might lead a person to believe that the best way to ask this question of why bad things happen is to not point any fingers, but to shrug. This is the path, by the way, that is most natural to me. Temperamentally, I am not confrontational, I am ready to just move on. I need to take better care of myself, make sure the people carrying the Torah are careful as they go down the stairs, and make sure my cars are locked at night… that’s it, no fingers, no questions, case closed.
I could even justify this approach from our tradition. There is a line of thinking in many classical Jewish sources that describe olam k’minhago noheig. According to this approach, G-d is not a puppet master and us humans have full autonomy. What we see happening around us and to us, is nature running its course. Of course, G-d allows for the world to run this way, and we believe G-d can, at any moment, change anything. But for the most part, according to this line of thinking, 99% of the things that happen in this world are just nature running its course. A Torah dropping a few feet from where you’re standing, fainting in middle of a talk, and your van stolen? People slip, people faint, people steal. All within ten days? Coincidence. Nothing more and nothing less.
There is another type of shrug which has become much more mainstream over the past few decades. In the aftermath of the Holocaust, the question of why was posed over and over again. While bad things happening are not necessarily a product of our misdeeds – there are numerous reasons listed as to why tragedy can befall a person, sin is the most obvious and most discussed in our literature. And so, to counter this explanation which would be too much for the survivors to bear, the leading rabbis of the day shifted our attention to the fact that we ultimately do not know G-d’s ways. “We cannot know,” became the most well-known refrain in response to suffering. A shrug. A heavy shrug, but a shrug.
This party-line was a hora’at sha’ah, it was meant for a specific group of people at a specific juncture in time. To shrug when bad things happen to ourselves is to close our eyes to what historically, has been the most powerful call to personal growth and change. To chalk up our misfortunes to being beyond our comprehension or to a fluke of nature, while both potentially theologically-sound, allows our tragedy to be doubled by ignoring its possible message.
Which brings me to the third and final way to ask the question of why bad things happen. It involves asking the question, not just shrugging and moving on. But instead of pointing a finger upwards or outwards, it involves pointing a finger toward oneself; why did this happen to me?
It involves stopping and appreciating that something is wrong; not just the things that happened around us, not just the people messing up and being mean around us. But something is wrong inside. Some people, when bad things happen to them, they check their Mezuzahs. I have to tell you, if G-d is manipulating nature to send me a message, if He’s making ‘all that effort’ to speak to me, I’m fairly confident there are things in my life that need fixing that are far more important than my mezuzahs. You want to check something? Check your soul.
Am I really living my life to the fullest? Am I actualizing the potential that G-d filled me with? Am I using the gifts G-d gave me to better the lives of the people around me, to the full capacity, or am I getting by with just enough to fool anyone watching? That I believe is the question that needs to be asked; why did this happen to me. It’s a question I need to ask myself. It’s a question we all need to ask whenever there is disruption. It’s the only question worth asking, and it’s the only question that we can answer – and answer it we must.
***
We’re about to begin Yizkor. There are people in this room who have questions – fingers pointed to G-d; Why? Why did you take my loved one? What did He do to you? What did I do to you?
And we stand there with our fingers outstretched.
There are people in this room who have different types of questions – fingers pointed at parents who are no longer alive. Why? Why didn’t you give me the attention I begged for? Why didn’t you respect me? Why did you give me so much pain?
And we stand there with our fingers outstretched.
There are people in this room who have no questions at all – the eino yode’ah lish’ol, just gliding through life, unmoved.
And then there are people in this room who are taking advantage of this moment, filled with memories both good and bad, and asking difficult questions like, how can I not make the mistakes my parents made? How can I be an even better person inspired by the love I received? How can I show my appreciation for this gift of life? They are also pointing a finger, but it’s directed at themselves.
***
We have a tradition that only 1/5th of the Jewish People crossed the Yam Suf. The rest of them remained back in Egypt. Why? Or more accurately, how? The water had turned to blood, there were frogs, lice, animals dying, hail, locust, darkness, death of the firstborn. How could they have not seen what was happening? How could they have ignored all of that?
You see, 4/5th of the Jewish People just never stopped to ask, why? They shrugged and went on with their lives as if nothing happened.
I imagine if we were to ask that question to one of those who stayed behind, he would scoff at us; You’re asking me why I didn’t open my eyes to the miracles around me?! Israel is in your hands, Jerusalem is your capital, you have freedom, you have health, you have everything. How could you not see what’s happening? How could you ignore all of this?
We must live with these burning questions. Not only when disaster strikes, but when the sun shines. Not only when we lose loved ones, but when we wake up and see them sleeping near us. Not only when we are ill, but when we can take in this brilliantly fresh air. To be a Jew is to ask questions. To be a good Jew is to ask the right questions in the right direction.
Why did this happen to me? Why am I living in these incredible times? In what way do I need to change my life?
by Motzen | May 8, 2022 | Sermons
Ambition and serenity. Accomplishment and acceptance. Change and stability. Future and present. Creation and cultivation.
These are but a few of the conflicting pulls and pushes that we find ourselves torn between; a constant charge to change and to conquer on the one hand, and a sense of silence and serenity on the other.
Historically, different cultures embraced one direction over the other. The Western world, for years, has placed progress on its altar of worship. From the Industrial Revolution and onward, it has been one steady climb higher and higher on the ladder of achievement. Just the same, in the Eastern cultures of the world, the present was chosen over the future. They embraced a sense of being over becoming, contentment over desire.
In fact, David Landes, in his book the Wealth and Poverty of Nations, argues that despite the fact that the East was far more advanced than the West, the Industrial Revolution took place in Europe and not in China precisely because the East embraced the here and now, while the West valued moving forward.
In more recent years, the lines have blurred. CEO’s of Fortune 500 companies pride themselves in doing yoga between conference calls, and the Western version of success has taken root across the globe. Lawyers meditate and Buddhists have Twitter accounts. All of us recognize the need for these two all-important directions, the drive for more, and the need to put on the brakes. What we’re challenged with is balancing the two and living a healthy life with the appropriate dose of each.
Rabbi Yehuda HaLevi, author of the Kuzari, argues that this is precisely the purpose of the Torah, to provide our lives with equilibrium. Six days a week we toil, one day a week we rest, allowing ourselves to find the Divinely-ordained balance between future-thinking and appreciating the moment.
Not only does the Torah address this conflict, it addresses them all. Today we celebrate a holiday with good food, singing, and friends, and tomorrow we begin the mourning period of Sefira, a time during which no weddings take place, live music is frowned upon, and haircuts are forbidden. There is Purim and there is Tisha B’av. It’s important to laugh but it’s also important to cry. The laws of Kosher teach us an allowance to indulge but also to restrain. The laws of Taharat HaMishpacha, of Family Purity, are directed at this same tension. The Torah acknowledges the value of everything but seeks to guide us in finding the perfect balance.
And so in this worldview, the laws of the Torah are not an arbitrary set of instructions. They are a blueprint for finding equilibrium in our lives, and through the Mitzvos, through the vast body of Jewish Law we are taught a perspective, an implicit education about the Jewish approach to life. Yes, it is a set of laws, black and white, and sometimes grey. But they are laws that are meant to paint a colorful picture of values and of principals which should make up our worldview.
Let me give you an example. Yesterday, my wife came home from Seven-Mile with hot dog buns. Hot dog buns! What a shanda! It was the first time we had hot dogs during Pesach in my life! Now these hot dog buns were obviously not bread but made out of potato starch. My children, not realizing this, immediately went to the sink to wash their hands before eating what they thought to be bread!
So let me ask you, is it or is it not appropriate to eat potato starch hot dog buns on Pesach? On the one hand, the Torah does not want us eating bread on Pesach; there’s a value being taught, not only a law, so maybe fake bread shouldn’t be eaten either! On the other hand, the Torah dictates what bread is, and potato starch is not bread!
Yes, I did it eat the hot dog buns, but it’s not so simple when you look at the laws as values and not simply a set of rules.
The Kabbalists take this one step further. They explain that just like individual laws teach us principles, just like Kosher teaches us the need for balance between indulgence and restraint, just like Shabbos teaches us the balance between striving and accepting, so too the laws that relate to men and women, the laws that distinguish between men and women, represent and teach us about the delicate balance between the opposing poles that we began with, between ambition and serenity, between accomplishment and acceptance, between change and stability, between future and present, and between creating and cultivating.
So for example, in Halacha, Jewish Law, men are obligated in saying Shema twice a day, putting on Tefillin, wearing Tzitzis, circumcision, and about ten other Mitzvot that women are exempt from. In Jewish literature, Torah study is emphasized for men and in that same literature, prayer is emphasized for women.
Is that to say that women cannot understand the depth of the Talmud like a man? No, that’s ridiculous. Is that to say that a man cannot pray like a woman? No, that’s equally ridiculous.
What it is perhaps saying is that G-d, in creating two genders, and G-d, in creating differences in the laws that govern those genders, sought to ensure a sense of equilibrium in the world. Prayer is a tool to cultivate a relationship and Torah study, and those aforementioned laws are tools to change the way we think and to transform the physical world. Through the holidays, through the laws, and even through people, G-d created a sense of differentiation to create a sense of balance. Just like abstaining from work on Shabbos brings a sense of ‘being’ and acceptance into our lives, a woman who is exempt from certain laws or who has certain Mitzvot emphasized, brings precisely the same values into our lives, while the men with their emphasis on Mitzvos that change and transform bring their yin to the women’s yang, and together they create a balance in the world.
And just like we asked with the potato-starch hot dog bun, should the bun be eaten or not? We similarly grapple with what precisely are the values that are meant to be taught through this gender-divide.
There are those who take the values they glean to the extreme, claiming that it is forbidden for women to drive a car, to speak before a man, and to have certain types of jobs. And there are others, on the opposite extreme who argue that there is no value being taught whatsoever, and we must find every way possible for women to do exactly what men do in the religious arena.
And I would argue for something, something admittedly ambiguous, and not so clearly defined, but something in the middle – I believe the Torah is teaching us values, the Torah is teaching us the need for these two forces in our lives, the drive for creating and accomplishing, and the sense of serenity and cultivation, both are needed in the human experience. And just like that is somehow accomplished by working for six days and resting on the seventh, and just like we could technically do more things on Shabbos but we don’t because we want to maintain that spirit, I would posit that we similarly, respect that gender-divide; not adding made-up laws to erase women from our society, but respecting the values that 51% of our nation is supposed to teach us.
Okay, so what does this all mean? I’ve been talking all the way up here, let’s talk in real terms.
Let me ask you a question. Who is the #1 role model for young women in April of 2016?
Beyonce! Of course! Beyonce, for all of you who just came down to earth, is a singer, song-writer, owner of fashion companies, and on the side she does some philanthropy. In some regards, I respect her, I really do. But at the same time, she is not the type of woman that I would want my daughters to look up to. Just to name one example, her modesty, and I am not even talking about the way she dresses! Last week she released an album titled Lemonade, which broadcasted to the world that her husband has been unfaithful. That was essentially the theme of the entire album.
In Judaism, there are laws of modesty that govern both men and women, but the laws that govern women are certainly more restrictive. Is it to help men? No. It’s to bring into our shared world a heightened sense of sacredness, a deeper respect for sensitivity, that’s the value that modesty teaches us.
You know who my female role model is? (Because by the way, every human has a feminine side as well as masculine, and both need to be cultivated.) You know who my female role model is? It’s my mother.
She’s a professional. She works full-time and even with six rambunctious children jumping off the walls, she brought tons of work home with her. But to me, she exemplified and exemplifies the ideals we’ve been talking about. She taught me in the way she rushed to prepare for Shabbos. She taught me in the way that she would say Tehillim every single day, before nightfall, and carve out some meaningful time with her Creator.
Rabbi Yosef Soloveitchik, known for his mastery of Torah, what we described as masculine in some respects, shared the following telling description of his mother: “I learned [from my mother] that Judaism expresses itself not only in formal compliance with the law but also in a living experience. She taught me that there is a flavor, a scent and warmth to mitzvot. I learned from her the most important thing in life—to feel the presence of the Almighty and the gentle pressure of His hand resting upon my frail shoulders. Without her teachings, which quite often were transmitted to me in silence, I would have grown up a soulless being, dry and insensitive.”
I think we could all relate to that on some level. I once stood at this pulpit and mocked those eulogies that make me ravenously hungry; the eulogies where the rabbi gets up and goes on and on about the kneidlach and the Matzah Balls that old Mrs. Gross used to make. And then the children get up and talk about the Strudels and the Kugels and cakes. And I would sit at these funerals thinking to myself, “Really? Is this really all this woman accomplished in her life?”
Personally, I have a rule that I don’t make any food that takes longer to prepare than it does to eat, which limits me to cereal and toast. (My wife, thank G-d does not have the same policy!) And so my mouth would be watering and I’d be exasperated, silently pleading for these ridiculously trivial eulogies to go on.
But that’s exactly the point!!
I may value conquest, I may value achievements.
But there are lessons to be learned from making chicken soup, from the patience, from the sense of nurturing for those who will eat it, and the magical way that those foods represent to all of us the holidays, the Shabbos, Judaism itself.
So no, Judaism does not suggest that women belong in the kitchen, nor does it suggest that women are in any way second-class citizens. What it does suggest, broadly-speaking, is that we, men and women, represent different values, and through the laws of the Torah those values find expression.
Within each and every one of us there is an aspect of masculinity and an aspect of femininity. Our goal is to find the balance within by observing the balance from without. The goal is not in any way to stifle the G-d-given talents and abilities that each of us have been blessed with. We spent the past four sermons describing four remarkable women, Donna Mendes Gracias, Miriam the prophetess, Sarah Schenirrer, and Golda Meir. There are so many more we could add to the list. We could add numerous Biblical women who defied any stereotype that we would expect the “patriarchal” Bible to present. Sarah, the not-so-passive matriarch, Devorah, the judge/ warrior/ prophetess, in later years Yehudis, the brave fighter, and the list goes on.
I don’t think the Torah wants men to have a certain profession and women to have a different one. I don’t think the Torah wants us to view women as Heaven forbid, worse than men.
I think the Torah wants us to see value in cultivation, like a pregnant or nursing woman cares for her child. I think the Torah wants us to see the value of things that are intangible and yet holy, like a chicken soup made for Shabbos. I think the Torah wants us to see value in modesty, both physical as well as verbal through the emphasis on Mitzvos that take place in private or in the home and not in the Synagogue. I think the Torah wants us to see the value in patience, in the strength needed to care for a crying child and a hysterical infant. I think the Torah wants us to see the value in acceptance like the mother who accepts her grown child regardless of what he or she has accomplished. I think the Torah wants to give expression to someone that everyone in this room has met and someone that many in this room will be mourning for in just a moment, and that is our mothers. The love, the patience, the stillness, the warmth, the strength, and the stability, that is the Eishes Chayil, the woman of strength; the Jewish mother, the wife, the daughter, the Jewish women, who through our rich tradition, exemplifies these ideals.
by Motzen | Mar 13, 2022 | Sermons
Front Lobby Pressure (parody of Surface Pressure, Encanto)
We’re the strong ones, we’re not nervous
We’re as tough as the crust of the cha-llah is
We move ha-arts, we move shu-uls
And we kvell ’cause we know what our worth is
We don’t ask how hard the work is
Got volunteers for every purpose
Zoomdalah, and youth groups, classes, and kiddush
Our member-ship’s growing, Ner Tamid is glowing
But
Under the surface
I feel meshugah-as
a tightrope walker in a three-ring circus
Under the surface
Was David ever like “Yo, I don’t want to fight Golias?”
Under the surface
I’m pretty sure we’re worthless; toilets’ out of service
A flaw and a crack
The straw in the stack
That breaks the lobby’s back
What breaks the lobby’s back it’s –
Leaking like a drip, drip, drip that’ll never stop, whoa
Carpet’s tearing like a rip, rip, rip ’till it just goes pop, whoa
If you think you’re old, our lobby’s older
Decades of wear and tear it can’t shoulder
Who are we if we don’t have a front hall?
If we stick with –
Styles that were hip, hip, hip, 60 years ago, whoa
Bathrooms like a jail, jail, jail, how would I know, whoa
If you think you’re old, our lobby’s older
Decades of wear and tear it can’t shoulder
Who are we if we don’t have a front hall?
If we falter
Under the surface, I hide my nerves, fallen plaques gonna hurt us
Under the surface, The shul doesn’t swerve, despite the big bu-dget
Under the surface, I think about our purpose, can we somehow preserve this?
Our building’s dominoes
A light wind blows
You try to stop it tumbling
But on and on it goes
But wait –
If we could raise some big donations for renovations
Would that free some room up for G-d
Torah, and prayer, or time together,
Instead we measure this growing pressure
Keeps growing, keep going
‘Cause our whole roof is
Leaking like a drip, drip, drip that’ll never stop, whoa
Glass is cracking like a crack, crack, crack ’till it just goes
pop, whoa
If you think you’re old, our lobby’s older
Decades of wear and tear it can’t shoulder
Who are we if we can’t raise the cash?
If we stick with –
Styles that were hip, hip, hip, 60 years ago, whoa
Bathrooms like a jail, jail, jail, how would I know, whoa
If you think you’re old, our lobby’s older
Decades of wear and tear it can’t shoulder
Who are we if we can’t raise the cash?
All it takes
Please help us raise,
No pressure!
Sign up today to help! https://web.causematch.com/sign-up/ner-tamid
