by Ner Tamid | Mar 26, 2023 | Sermons
Who here has ever flicked on a light on Shabbos by mistake?
Who here has ever forgotten they just ate some meat and ate a piece of dairy chocolate by mistake?
Who here has ever washed their hands before eating bread and spoke by mistake?
It happens, right? And when it happens, we probably feel bad for a second, then we shrug our shoulders, say, whoops, and move on. Right?
Who here has forgotten a birthday or anniversary of a loved one? Did you shrug your shoulders and say whoops?
You may have, but that probably didn’t end well.
At the end of the day, it’s just a mistake. Why is my spouse throwing things at me and breaking all the China?
Your spouse is throwing things at you because although it is indeed a mistake, deep down, if something is really important to us, if we really cared, it’s unlikely we would have made a mistake.
That is the premise of the Korban Chatas, a sin offering, that we learned about this morning. This offering which was not cheap and took a lot of time to prepare was not brought for a deliberate sin. It was brought when we made a whoops. We are mandated to bring this expensive, time-consuming offering, we are told that we need to atone because we make mistakes when we are careless, not careful. We make mistakes because deep down, we don’t really care.
Now you may think you care; you may genuinely believe that you care. You may be yelling and screaming, I really care about Shabbos, I just forgot that it’s Shabbos. I really care about you honey, I just forget that it’s your birthday.
But the Torah, by mandating a kaparah, an atonement, for these mistakes, is telling us that deep down, so deep we may genuinely be completely unaware of those feelings, but deep down we don’t care or we just don’t care enough, and therefore we are guilty. I hope I’m not causing shalom bayis issues with this talk…
We often say we care about things, and we truly think we care, but we often don’t know what we really care about.
The greatest proof to this is – TikTok. That’s right, TikTok, the social media best known for silly videos of teens dancing.
The CEO of TikTok spent Thursday on Capitol Hill getting grilled by politicians, mostly about the possibility of the app being used by the Chinese as a spying tool. Now there are many ways the Chinese spy on the US, some subtle, some balloon-in-the-sky-not-so-subtle. Why is congress so worked up about TikTok?
The simple answer is that TikTok is ridiculously popular. From the Washington Post – “TikTok’s website was visited last year more often than Google. No app has grown faster past a billion users, and more than 100 million of them are in the United States, roughly a third of the country. The average American viewer watches TikTok for 80 minutes a day — more than the time spent on Facebook and Instagram, combined. And while half of TikTok’s U.S. audience is younger than 25… the industry analyst eMarketer expects its over-65 audience will increase this year by nearly 15 percent. AARP last year even unveiled a how-to guide.”
Why is TikTok so popular?
One simple reason – TikTok knows you better than you know yourself.
Most social media apps, like Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, ask you what your interests are. Or, they ask you to follow people. The algorithm then goes ahead and sends you videos or posts based on your choices of what you want. Or – what you think you want.
TikTok doesn’t care what you say. They calculate how long you linger on a particular video. They calculate every time you swipe a certain type of video. They build your personal profile not through the conscious choices you make, but base entirely on your behaviors. As one columnist recently put it, “I’m one TikTok away from walking into my next therapy session and simply handing (my therapist) my [TikTok] ‘For You’ page in place of explaining how I am.” If you want to know what you really care about, go download TikTok – after Shabbos. The reason this social media app is so popular is because it really gets us; it understands us better than we understand ourselves.
And so the next time we make a mistake and we tell ourselves, it was a real honest mistake, it’s worth remembering that maybe just maybe, I think I care, but I don’t. Despite the most sophisticated self-awareness, there are levels of consciousness that may be beyond our reach. I may click, Follow Shabbos, Follow Love, but deep down, there may be something else going on. And that’s why we have the Korban Chatas – through our mistakes, we are given a window not into who we think we are, but who we really are.
But that’s not where the Korban Chatas ends, nor is it where TikTok ends.
The goal of the sin-offering is not just self-awareness. Some people love therapy because they get to talk about themselves endlessly. Not only that, but someone is listening to them. But that’s not Judaism’s view of growth. Self-awareness for the sake of self-awareness is just self-gratification. Self-awareness needs to breed self-transformation. Don’t be yourself. Be better.
TikTok’s power is not only that it can tell us who we are; it can also change us. In my opinion, the most insidious feature of TikTok is not the Chinese. It’s the fact that it’s changing our minds – especially the highly malleable minds of teenagers. A critical life skill is the ability to delay gratification. I could spend time in school because in a decade from now, it will pay off. I will be a faithful spouse because even though I may have some instant gratification, it will ruin a lifetime. I will save money and not have as much fun right now so that I will be able to pay for needed expenses in the future. In a world, or on an app where I’m getting dopamine hits every twenty seconds, our ability to self-regulate, to have patience, to make wise choices, it’s all out the window. That’s just one of countless examples. Social media is changing the way we think and the way we act. There are significant studies that are showing that social media is the prime cause of the explosion of mental health issues in teenagers these days.
And while that’s depressing, it’s also uplifting. Because that means we can change. If by spending eighty minutes a day on an app, we can become more impatient, then with some work and time, we can become more patient. If we can become more judgmental, we can become more accepting. If we could become more critical, then we can become more complimentary. We can change who we are.
That’s what we’re doing when we bring a korban. It’s not just an act of self-awareness. I now realize that I don’t care enough about Shabbos, my community, my spouse, G-d, whatever it may be. But that’s not enough. We then spend time finding the perfect animal and then we take it to the Kohein, who goes ahead and slaughters it in front of our eyes, sprinkles its blood all over the place, chops it up, and throws half the animal on the altar. And you’re thinking this is gross. This is disgusting. I feel like I want to vomit. How does this work?
The Ramban says that is exactly the point. The experience at the Temple, with the blood splashing everywhere, and the animals screaming, and the fire, is meant to be a shocking experience. It is meant to be so intense that it catapults us into a whole new way of life.
There are two ways to change ourselves; one is day in and day out, small adjustments that with time make a big difference. But there is a different way to change – a moment of intensity. A powerful experience. Something so intense, so overwhelming that we just can’t go back to our old way of life.
Says the Ramban, you go to the Bais Hamikdash, you’re over-awed by its beauty, overtaken by the powerful music, and then your animal is taken, your animal is slaughtered, your animal’s blood is sprinkled – that moment of intensity can change your forever.
I’ve been on a bit of a crusade for the past few years, telling people that Pesach preparation should not be intense. I gave a class three weeks ago, titled, cleaning your house for Pesach in twenty minutes. Last week I gave a class on how to have a Kosher for Pesach kitchen without a single piece of tinfoil. And I stand by all that I said. Pesach does not have to be stressful.
But there’s a counterpoint which needs to be mentioned. There is something beautiful about intensity. Do you have to kasher your countertops and cover them? No. Is treating corn syrup as kitniyos a tremendous stringency? Yes. Is moving every couch, checking every suit pocket, flipping through every book in your home to find chameitz really necessary? Not it is not. And we do not have to. But a little bit of intensity can do us well. It can change who we are.
Rav Tzadok HaKohein observes that the very first Korban Pesach was celebrated with extra intensity; they ate quickly, they moved quickly, they acted in a deliberately extreme fashion. Rav Tazdok explains that to transform from a slave into a free person, to change from one type of person into someone else entirely, you can’t just take baby steps. You need to jump into a new reality. You need to be extreme. You need to be a little crazy.
It’s not only good for us, it’s good for our children. We’re constantly trying to crack the algorithm on how to inspire our children. Many suggest we chill out, we make Judaism light, because if it’s too intense, the children won’t take to it. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks pointed out that the two Jewish holidays that are most widely celebrated are Yom Kippur and Pesach – the two that make the greatest demands on us, the two that are the most extreme.
Pesach is a time of change. Change begins by learning who we are, by being open to the fact that as great as our self-awareness may be, there’s always more to learn. But we don’t stop there. Self-awareness is a means to an end. Through self-awareness we transform. Sometimes with small steps and small changes, and sometimes with acts of intensity. I hope and pray that the next week is a calm one for all of us, but I also encourage you to make space for just a little bit of crazy.
by Ner Tamid | Mar 5, 2023 | Sermons
I usually sing a pardoy sing on Parshas Zachor. A few years ago, it was Hamilton, last year a song from Encanto. This year, I asked some people which song I should cover. One friend suggested I cover a song called, Unholy. I found the song on YouTube… and about ten seconds into the song, I turned it off. And deleted my search history…
Someone else suggested I take one of the songs Rihanna sang at the Superbowl. I did not watch the game or the halftime show, so I asked her what she sang… and I quickly decided, no.
It reminded me of an experience I had in high school. I went to a Yeshiva high school and the school’s rule was that we were not allowed to be in possession of CD’s with non-Jewish music. A friend of mine had one of his CD’s confiscated; it was an Eminem album. Our principal was a very wise and out of the box thinker. Instead of getting this boy in trouble, he preferred to teach us why this rule existed. So the next day, he walked into our class with a print out of all the lyrics and started reading them, without skipping nay words. There were Eminem lyrics. For those of you who don’t know who he is, G-d bless you. For those who do, you could just imagine our faces turning colors as this bearded rabbi made us squirm in our seats.
He was trying to make a point. It’s not “just music.” There are messages that are problematic. Or maybe that’s too mild of a word. There are messages that are wrong. Immoral. Incorrect. And we should not be listening to them.
It took me a long time to appreciate his message, but it eventually sunk in, and I’d like to share how and why, but first let me tell you about a class I did not give this past week. Earlier this week, I spoke at WIT, the Women’s Institute of Torah. When they invited me, knowing that I’d be speaking a few days before Parshas Zachor, I offered to give a lecture on the morality of destroying Amaleik; the Mitzvah that we read about today, how we are mandated to destroy the men, women, and children of the nation of Amaleik. I was hoping to address the moral quandary; how could G-d command us to commit genocide? The organizers suggested that I choose a different topic; “The attendees,” I was told, “are not bothered by this question. If G-d says to do it, then we do. No. questions. asked.”
I was quite taken by that comment. On the one hand, I admire anyone who has such submission to G-d, that no matter what He says, we recognize that He is the ultimate arbiter of morality, good and evil, and so if it’s a Mitzvah, it is, by definition, positive. There’s a part of me that wishes I had that type of humility and faith. If G-d said so, it’s good.
On the other hand, I can’t ignore that fact that I am troubled by this Mitzvah. Why are we instructed to kill not only the soldiers, not only the men, but the women and children of this nation of Amaleik? Why are we instructed to kill not only the Amaleikim who attacked us in the desert, but all of their descendants? What did they do wrong?!
We are not the first to grapple with this question. It’s worth noting that the Rambam’s position on this Mitzvah is that we are to kill them only if they reject our overtures for peace; if they agree to live peacefully with the Jewish People, then the Mitzvah of destroying Amaleik does not apply.
While that makes it a little easier to understand, most commentators and understand the Mitzvah to destroy Amaleik applies even if they claim to want to live peacefully with the Jewish People. Instead, the Ramban and Abarbanel describe Amaleik as a nation that is intrinsically immoral. There is something in their spiritual DNA that is broken and unfixable. This is why we are commanded to destroy them.
I imagine for many of you, myself included, that does not sit so well. Does it?
Thankfully, this is an academic discussion. The nation of Amaleik no longer exists. And so, there is no group of people whom we are commanded to destroy. And yet, despite its seeming irelevance, we read Parshas Zachor every year. It is the only Torah reading of the entire year that is Biblically mandated. We are going to have a second reading of Parshas Zachor after davening for those who missed the first one. It is quite clearly a critical passage with an eternal message. What is it? What are we, in 2023, with no Amaleik in sight, expected to learn from this passage that elevates the genocide of a particular nation?
Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm, in his commentary on the Megillah, provides an incredibly important idea that puts the destruction of Amaleik in a brand-new and especially relevant light. He begins by acknowledging the dangers of hatred. Hatred is poisonous. Hatred is blinding. Hatred is contagious and toxic. And yet, hatred is also important, even critical, for a moral society to exist. Because if we tolerate evil, if we are forever looking for the good in others, if we are unwilling to say something is wrong, if we close our ears to physical or spiritual threats, then not only does the wolf devour the lamb, but the moral fabric of our society gets shred into pieces.
And so, in Judaism, we use a word that Western society has done away with – sin. And in Judaism, sinners are punished for their sins. “Forgive them father, for they know not what they do,” is not a Jewish idea. Neither is the modern application of this idea, where all is relative and contextual. Last year a movie came out called Joker. It shared a backstory to the infamous Batman nemesis. By the time you were finished the movie, you were meant to feel compassion for this man who (in the movie) kills innocent people. It’s part of a genre of movies in which there is no such thing as evil, but that’s an insidious idea. Meaning, we do not diagnose and therefore excuse Hitler because he was paranoid. We do not diagnose and therefore excuse Stalin because he was schizophrenic. No. We read in today’s Haftorah how one of our greatest prophets, Shmuel, upon hearing that Agag, the king of Amaleik was spared, took a knife and executed him on his own. Hate, when properly directed, is of value, it reflects a conviction that we acknowledge and differentiate between good and evil.
And so, we are commanded to hate. Yes, hate. Because “Ohavei Hashem, those who love G-d,” writes King David, “sinu ra, they hate evil.” Indifference to evil is not a moral value, it’s a reflection of moral apathy. Someone with a strong sense of right and wrong has an emotional response to evil. “This” explains Rabbi Lamm, “is the basic motif of the commandment to read the Biblical portion of Amalek, and to observe the festival of Purim.” It’s not all fun and games.
I am not a very hateful person. I get angry like everyone else. I get frustrated at people. But I don’t recall hating someone; it’s just not in my psyche. Rabbi Lamm is teaching us, teaching me that that is a problem. Being too forgiving, too understanding, too accepting is morally flawed. We need to live with conviction. We need to care deeply about the world around us. We cannot shrug when we hear of someone doing something evil. It needs to hurt. We cannot dismiss every evil act with rationalizations, their terrible childhood, or the difficulties with which they live, or some other explanation. And for the same reason we cannot listen or take in videos or even music that normalizes twisted behavior. We need to call out evil when we see it. “Ohavei Hashem, sinu ra. One who truly loves G-d and good, despises what is evil.”
But please note, in 2023, without a living, breathing Amaleik, hatred is an emotion, it’s a feeling we are encouraged to experience, but it is not an action. Yes, “hakam l’harg’cha hashkeim l’horgo,” when someone attacks us or threatens us, we are allowed and even encouraged to fight back against the attacker – and the attacker only, to prevent harm, even if that means taking a life. But beyond the emotion of hatred, we are not to act on it. In Jewish law and thought, there is no justification for vengeance carried out by man. There is no justification for allowing our emotions to spill over into violent or even destructive actions. There is no justification to take the law into one’s own hands. When people burn down a city in response to evil, that is not taking the law into one’s hands. That too is evil.
The Maharal of Prague was once asked, “The Sages teach us to emulate G-d’s compassion and kindness. ‘Mah hu rachum, af ata rachum. Why are we not instructed to emulate G-d’s vengeance and wrath? The Torah also describes G-d’s rage and violence?”
The Maharal explained that we should, but we can’t. It’s impossible to perfectly calibrate any emotion, but if we make a mistake and love someone a little too much, nisht geferlech, it’s not the end of the world. But if we make a mistake and hate someone excessively, the damage is too great, and so we don’t.
We hate in our hearts, we hate in our minds, but we do not hate with our hands, nor do we even hate with our words.
We act in self-defense. We have an IDF that protects us.
We have, if we need to, the right to defend ourselves if attacked, to even preempt an attack if we know of someone in particular who is out to get us.
And we spend time on Purim, reflecting on all those who tried to kill us, physically and spiritually. We stamp then out. We boo them. It is immoral not to hate evil.
But when hate gets out of control, when we cannot distinguish between Amaleik and other gentiles, when we cannot distinguish between terrorists and Arabs – yes, even those who live in a city filled with terrorists, when we cannot distinguish between thought and action, that too is immoral, and terribly dangerous.
The State of Israel is going through one of its most difficult times. It’s a tinderbox of powerful emotions that can, at any moment, heaven forbid, explode. It’s already starting to explode. They need our prayers. They need our support. They need our modeling, how to be filled with conviction without taking undue action.
I conclude with a hope and prayer from Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm: “I want (them) [my children],” he wrote, “to know that there is a moral law which requires that those who have placed themselves outside morality deserve not our love but our contempt. I want my children to have available for themselves the psychological relief in hating those who deserve it, so that,” and here are the key words – “they can relate to all others constructively and lovingly. I want them to be halakhic Jews, and thus to handle hatred with extreme circumspection and caution and great care; and so, in effect, they will hate without hurt, and express their innate hostility toward evil by stamping and stomping and groggering … By restricting our hatred to evil and those who personify it … by chanting the commandment to obliterate Amalek and by hissing and booing at the mention of Haman’s name, we shall learn to act lovingly to all [of] G-d’s creatures.”
by Ner Tamid | Feb 26, 2023 | Sermons
I do not go grocery shopping.
Once in a while, I’ll make an exception, but for the most part you will not see me pushing a shopping cart. Not for any misogynistic reasons, it’s entirely pragmatic.
For starters, I can’t find anything. The few times that I have taken our shopping list to Seven Mile or Market Maven, I literally end walking in circles for hours. You have to understand, I never ate vegetables as a child. My mother tried but my diet consisted of macaroni, and hot dogs. The only vegetables I ate were french fries because yes, potatoes are vegetables. So when my wife sends me to buy… squash, I don’t know what she’s talking about. (And of course, I would never ask anyone for help even if my life depended on it.)
Even when I know what things look like – I know what Nestle Quick chocolate powder is (chocolate is also a vegetable, by the way. It’s a bean.) but they hide it! It’s not on those big signs. It’s not a condiment, it’s not a spice. It’s like a treasure hunt I didn’t sign up for.
But aside from all the wasted time, the real reason is that I hate bumping into congregants. Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing you, I do. It’s more about how you react to seeing me outside of shul. First of all, when people see me, they always say, Good Shabbos. It’s Monday!! That’s fine. But 9 out of 10 conversations go something like this.
“Hi Mr. Congregant, how are you?”
“Oh. Rabbi Motzen. I’m great. Uh, you know, last week, my daughter really wasn’t feeling well so we stayed home from shul.”
Okay.
“The week before, we had a Bar Mitzvah at a different shul. And the week before that, uh, the weather. Yeah, the weather was really bad.”
It’s always different version of the same conversation. I asked you how you’re doing, and what you heard was me asking you where have you been? What I realized is that I am, and I guess it’s a rabbi thing, a guilt generator. You see me and you feel guilty. Am I correct?
Who here would be totally cool seeing me at Seven Mile?
Okay, let’s play a little game. We’ll call it, Hanging out with the Rabbi.
Who here would be comfortable with me coming home with you today for lunch?
What are we eating, huh? All glatt Kosher, I hope. Are you ready for an in-depth parsha quiz? Do you know how many sockets there were in the Mishkan? I hope you like singing, we’re going to sing every song in the bencher. Still okay with me coming over? Show of hands. Great.
Round two – Can I stay over for the rest of the day?
You do what on Shabbos afternoon? Those are Shabbos clothes? Hmm. What time is Shalosh Seudos? Show of hands. Okay, we still have a few masochists.
Round three, can I stick around for Saturday night?
Where are we going? Oh, we’re watching Netflix. Ooh, I don’t think we can watch that show. Oh no, definitely not that. What?! No! How is that even legal?!
We’re going to end up watching Cocomelon and we’re going to fast-forward whenever Mommy sings. Are you still having me over?! Who’s in? Fine! Who is taking me along on vacation… to Vegas?
Anyone still standing? Great! You win a free trip to Las Vegas with Rabbi… Heineman! Have fun.
So aside from the two people here who are pretending that they’d always love to hang out with me, I think we all acknowledge that it’s nice to have a little bit of space. Walking around all day with a rabbi – even me, can be a little much.
And with that I think we can understand an incredible idea suggested by Rav Mordechai Yosef Leiner, otherwise known as the Izhbitzer, one of the most underappreciated and profound Jewish thinkers of the 19th century. Our Parsha begins with G-d instructing the Jewish People to build a Mishkan, a structure in which G-d will rest His divine Presence. But if you read the text carefully, it does not say that G-d will rest His presence in the Mishkan, it says, v’shochanti b’socham, and I will rest My presence in them – in the Jewish People. Some commentators see this as an allusion to the following idea: Prior to the sin of the Golden Calf, G-d was not going to rest His divine Presence in a structure. There was not going to be a Mishkan, a physical edifice. Rather, His presence would have been felt, like really tangibly felt, among each and every person. V’shochanti b’socham, and I will rest among YOU.
Now if it’s difficult to hang out with a rabbi for 24 hours, imagine – and I apologize for this incredibly pompous analogy – imagine hanging out with G-d all the time. It’s a little intense, isn’t it? Imagine the level of guilt you’d be walking around with at any given moment.
So what did the Jewish People do in response? They created a little bit of distance. They said, I don’t want to deal with the CEO of the company, that’s intimidating. I’m going to interact with the VP or the secretary instead.
That, my friends, is the sin of the Golden Calf. According to many commentators, they were not rejecting G-d, they were looking for a little bit of distance. They could not deal with the guilt of living with G-d and so they created an intermediary to create some space, something that would allow them to breathe.
The Izhbiter goes on to explain that this is an echo of the very first sin; the sin of Adam and Chava in the Garden. You know how at the end of the story they’re hiding behind some bushes. That IS the story. The reason they sinned was to hide from G-d, to create distance between them. Living with G-d is way too difficult. There’s too much guilt. It’s suffocating. So, they try to hide from G-d. Sinning is their way of creating a gap between them and their Creator.
Now I think if Adam and Chava would have checked themselves in with a therapist and shared their dilemma. “You know, doc, I am feeling overwhelmed by G-d. I feel guilty every time I do anything. It’s never enough. I feel sio judged. I can’t function this way. I’m constantly second-guessing myself. I can’t do what I want to do. He’s overbearing.” I imagine the therapist would encourage Adam and Chava to get themselves kicked out of the Garden to “create healthy boundaries.” Right?
If the Jewish People would collectively share their woes with a therapist, “G-d took us out of Egypt and now expects to hang out all the time. And, He has so many unreasonable expectations! 613 of them!” The therapist would beg the Jewish People to build a Golden Calf to counter all that guilt, to create an intermediary so they don’t have to interact with an overbearing G-d. Because guilt is bad. Isn’t it? Google ‘Guilt’ and you will find articles titled, How to Stop Feeling Guilty, Dealing with Guilt, Diagnosing the Guilt Complex…
But guilt is not bad. There is no actual word for guilt in Hebrew. The closest we have is Busha, shame. The word BOSH means to come late, or to fall short of an expectation. Vayar ha’am ki boshesh Moshe. When we feel guilt, that means our internal moral compass is reminding us that we’re falling short of what is expected of us. That’s an incredibly valuable feeling. It’s a gift.
But there is a healthy guilt and an unhealthy guilt. The Jewish People had an unhealthy guilt – and too often, so do we. We are afraid of the negative consequences of our actions. We imagine G-d standing there watching us, waiting for us to slip up, and when do BOOM, He’s going to get us.
How does G-d respond to the sin of the Golden Calf? He teaches Moshe the thirteen attributes – “Hashem, Hashem, Keil Rachum v’chanun. G-d who is compassionate and graceful etc.” In the Medrashic reading of that passage, G-d tells Moshe that when the Jewish People sin they should recite those words. Now that’s puzzling. Does G-d need an ego rub? Sing my praises and I’ll forgive you?! Of course not.
Perhaps, what we are doing when we say those words, what G-d tried to communicate to the Jewish People who were wracked with guilt, is that Hashem is kind, He is loving, He created us to give to us. Yes, we have rules, mitzvos and aveiros, but the foundation of those rules are not coming from an overbearing, punitive deity. They are coming from a loving father.
The difference between unhealthy guilt and healthy guilt is its foundation. If it’s founded on fear, if it’s founded on the mistaken notion of a punitive G-d, it’s toxic. But if it’s founded on love, on a recognition that G-d is not out to get us, He’s out to give to us, that He is not waiting for us to sin, He’s waiting for us to succeed, that the Mitzvos and Aveiros are not meant to stifle us, they are meant to help us actualize our potential, that guilt is incredibly powerful and good. That’s why we say the Thirteen Attributes of Hashem, to remind us how loving He is. And then and only then can we begin to reengage with Hashem.
A world without guilt is a world without conscience. It’s a world in which I do what I want. It’s a world in which I try to silence that nagging voice reminding me of the people I’m hurting and the price I’m going to pay. That’s a world of extreme individualism and anarchy.
Guilt is good. We should feel uncomfortable knowing that G-d is watching us. We should feel uncomfortable when we fall short in what we are meant to do. But it’s critical to know why G-d wants us to keep His rules. It’s critical to allow our guilt to flow from a place of love.
I’m not coming to your house for lunch, I’m not coming to your house to watch a movie. But when we mess up, which we all do, and we start to feel some guilt, let it in. It’s a G-dly voice that G-d imbedded into our psyche. It’s a gift from a G-d who loves us, who wants to make sure we live up to the incredibly high expectation He has for each and every one of us.
by Ner Tamid | Feb 19, 2023 | Sermons
On January 4th, 1861, at the Lloyd Street Synagogue, Rabbi Bernard Illowy made the following remarks: “Who can blame our brethren of the South for seceding from a society whose government cannot, or will not, protect the property rights and privileges of a great portion of the Union against the encroachments of a majority misguided by some influential… and selfish politicians who, under the color of religion and the disguise of philanthropy, have thrown the country into a general state of confusion, and millions into want and poverty?”
He continued, “If these magnanimous philanthropists do not pretend to be more philanthropic than Moses was, let me ask them, “Why did not Moses… command the judges in Israel to interfere with the institutions of those nations who lived under their jurisdiction, and make their slaves free…? Why did he not, when he made a law that no Israelite can become a slave, also prohibit the buying and selling of slaves from and to other nations? Where was ever a greater philanthropist than Abraham, and why did he not set free the slaves which the king of Egypt made him a present of?… All these are irrefutable proofs … that the authors of the many dangers, which threaten our country with ruin and devastation, are not what they pretend to be, the agents of Religion and Philanthropy.”
Rabbi Illowy was drawing on passages, such as the ones we read today in shul, passages that indicate that slavery is not a sin, to justify the institution of slavery and to claim that those against it are against the Torah.
Two weeks later, another rabbi from Baltimore, Rabbi David Einhorn of Har Sinai, penned a letter that described slavery as something the Torah tolerates but certainly does not elevate, something that is indeed at the very least, somewhat sinful. In his letter, he turned his wrath on the rabbis justifying slavery in the name of the Torah writing, “The Jew, a descendant of the race that offers daily praises to God for deliverance out of the house of bondage in Egypt, and even today suffers under the yoke of slavery in most places of the old world… undertook to designate slavery as a perfectly sinless institution, sanctioned by God?!”
Rabi Illowy was given a promotion after his speech praising slavery, Rabbi Einhorn lost his job and was literally chased out of town.
Let me ask you a question, you, Baltimore Jews of the 21st century, which one of these Baltimore rabbis was correct? Does the Torah endorse slavery, or does it paint slavery as an evil institution that is merely tolerated?
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes as follows:
“[The Torah] does not say: abolish slavery… [However,] Is that not the whole point of the story thus far? Joseph’s brothers sell him into slavery. … Generations later, when a pharaoh arises who “knew not Joseph,” the entire Israelite people become Egypt’s slaves. Slavery, like vengeance, is a vicious circle that has no natural end. Why not, then, give it a supernatural end? Why did God not say: There shall be no more slavery?”
“The Torah,” he continues, “has already given us an implicit answer. Change is possible in human nature, but it takes time: time on a vast scale, centuries, even millennia. There is little doubt that in terms of the Torah’s value system the exercise of power by one person over another, without their consent, is a fundamental assault against human dignity…
So slavery is to be abolished, but it is a fundamental principle of God’s relationship with us that he does not force us to change faster than we are able to do so of our own free will. So Mishpatim (our Torah portion) does not abolish slavery, but it sets in motion a series of fundamental laws that will lead people, albeit at their own pace, to abolish it of their own accord.”
To be very clear, Rabbi Sacks is NOT suggesting that Torah laws can change over time; prohibitions cannot be abolished. But in regard to slavery, something the Torah does not command us to involve ourselves in, it merely acknowledges, he suggests that the Torah sets in motion changes that will take place centuries later.
My gut reaction to Rabbi Sacks is that what he is writing is apologetics. It sounds, at first glance, to be a stretch. But when we study the laws of slavery in the Torah, I think you’ll see how compelling his point really is.
We don’t have the time for a deep-dive analysis, so let me share with you one law. We read today the following, “And if a person strikes the eye of his slave or the eye of his maidservant and blinds him, he shall send him free on account of the eye. And if he causes the tooth of his slave or of his maidservant to be knocked out, he shall send him free on account of the tooth.” If a slave-owner blinds his slave or even causes a tooth to be knocked out, the slave goes free. The Talmud interprets this to mean that if the master maims the slave in any way, he or she goes free.
Think about how novel this is. Remember the story of Shimshon/ Samson? What do the Philistines do to Shimshon when they capture him? They blind him. Remember the movie Gladiators or any movie depicting slaves in the Roman empire? Herodotus, the 5th century BCE Greek historian, described blinding slaves as the norm of his time.
In Hebrew, the term we use for a king’s slave is a sris. The word sris also means a eunuch, someone who was castrated. The two became synonymous because kings would regularly castrate their slaves to ensure that their wives were safe. This was the norm.
Slave masters would regularly knock out all the teeth of their slaves to prevent them from talking while they worked. Certainly, as you all know from American history, if a slave would “misbehave” a master would have every right to beat his slave in any way he saw fit.
And to all of this, the Torah says, no. Yes, the Torah does tolerate slavery. But to blind your slave?! To castrate your slave?! To even knock out a single tooth of your slave? Absolutely not.
To quote Rabbi Sacks once again: “If history tells us anything it is that God has patience, though it is often sorely tried. He wanted slavery abolished but he wanted it to be done by free human beings coming to see of their own accord the evil it is and the evil it does. The God of history, who taught us to study history, had faith that eventually we would learn the lesson of history: that freedom is indivisible. We must grant freedom to others if we truly seek it for ourselves.”
What Rabbi Sacks is suggesting is radical – that G-d, through the laws of our parsha, laws that sensitized the world to the humanity of slaves, laws that boldly declared this is not your property with whom you can do as you please, these laws would make an impression on those who learned them, who in time would learn its lessons and teach them to the world, and slavery would be abolished once and for all. It’s a radical idea, but I think he’s right. An analysis of the laws of slavery and a basic knowledge of the values of the Torah makes that all abundantly clear.
And if Rabbi Sacks is correct then Rabbi Einhorn was correct as well. That episode of Baltimore history, in which the Baltimore Jewish community chased Rabbi Einhorn out of this city because of his views on slavery is an embarrassment to our community’s rich Jewish history. I would imagine that if he were to get up today and give the same speech, that slavery is bad, we would all nod our heads in approval. Right? I would imagine that if he were to announce that all people, regardless of race, regardless of their social standing, are created in the image of G-d, we would stand up to applaud him. Right? I would imagine that if Rabbi Illowy would give a speech praising slavery, it would be him who we would chase out of town. Right?
Right?
But I’m not so sure.
Because you see, while slavery may not exist, the Torah is teaching us about an ever-relevant issue that still does. Slaves in the ancient and not so ancient world were those on the bottom rung of society. Not only does the Torah enhance the stature of the slave in the ancient world, it goes one big step further. Our parsha is the first parsha after the giving of the Ten Commandments. Ramban explains that the ten commandments are the summary of the entirety of the Torah, and it is in this parsha, mishpatim, the laws, in which the Torah goes into all of the details. If we were to be writing the laws of the Torah, we would probably start with Shabbos, maybe Kosher, maybe the need to believe in G-d. And yet, the Torah begins, and the very first set of laws of the Torah are about slavery, those on the bottom rung of society.
Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch explains that the laws of the Torah begin with slavery to teach us that “a nation’s greatness is measured by how it treats its weakest members.” (Mahatma Gandhi) It Is not enough to treat them well, G-d, by placing slavery as the very first set of laws, is informing us that how we interact with the underclass is how we are defined. Though slavery may no longer exist here in the US, that idea is ever-present.
How do we treat the custodian?
How do we treat the cashier?
How, after waiting on hold for 45 minutes, do we treat a customer service agent?
How do we treat children?
We had this amazing event this past Monday with a number of incredibly influential people. The event was well-attended, the presenters did a fabulous job, and people have been talking about the event and Ner Tamid all week. But you know what really stood out for me?
We had a reception before the event with shul leadership, a number of donors to the shul, and some leaders in the community. During this event, two of our panelists sat down to talk to my 13-year-old daughter and her two friends. In a room filled with all these “important” people, they had a real and extended conversation with three 13-year-olds. A person’s greatness is judged not by how many followers they have on social media, but by how he or she treats the weakest members of society.
There’s a lot of discussion in America about rectifying the evils of slavery. Contrary to the myths spread by antisemites, Jews did not play a significant role in the slave trade. But we, our community, the Jews who came before us here in Baltimore, applauded a rabbi who besmirched our Torah by elevating slavery and chased a rabbi out of town for daring to stand up against it. That is something we could rectify. Not necessarily with affirmative action or reparations. But with a nod of acknowledgment, with patience, a kind gesture, a smile, a hello. Our community will not be judged by the size of its houses, nor by the amount of Torah that we learn. We will be judged by how we treat the weakest members of our society.
by Ner Tamid | Feb 12, 2023 | Sermons
This past Tuesday, Lebron James, star-forward for the Los Angeles Lakers, became the all-time greatest scorer in the NBA, after scoring his 38,388th point.
Perhaps what was even more amazing is the picture of the crowd when he took the shot that gave him the record. Lebron James is in the air, taking a little jump shot, and virtually the ENTIRE crowd is holding up their cellphones to capture the moment. It’s unbelievable. You don’t even see faces. You see hundreds of people behind him, holding their phones up like this.
I could just imagine if we would have received the Torah at Sinai in 2023. Imagine the thunder, the lightning, the heavy cloud of glory, G-d’s voice ringing out from the top of the mountain – and the entirety of the Jewish People holding their phones up to capture the moment.
The truth is that is exactly what they did. They didn’t have cellphones, of course, but like the fans watching the Lebron, they weren’t really watching the game. There is a famous question that’s asked on the song we say on Seder night, Dayeinu. We say, “Had you only brought us to Har Sinai and not given us the Torah, Dayeinu! It would have been enough” And everyone asks, really? If we would have just stood at the foot of the mountain and never received the ten commandments, would that really have been enough?!
The answer is yes. The most important part of the experience at Sinai was not the content of the Torah, “Do not murder. Do not commit adultery.” No, that’s not it. The most important part was the experience of G-d communicating to our ancestors, to the Jewish People, to us. Day, dayeinu. Had G-d just communicated to us, without any particular message, it would have definitely been enough.
But the Jewish People did not understand that. The Jewish People wanted something concrete. Like the fans at the Lakers game, they wanted a memento, they wanted something tangible to leave the mountain with. But that wasn’t what was happening. Our Sages teach us that G-d communicated to them all of the commandments at once, not sequentially, but all ten in one voice, something that we are not equipped to hear. The Jewish People couldn’t handle it. They immediately approached Moshe. “Moshe, speak up, we can’t hear.” We want something concrete. We want something tangible. We want to walk away from this experience with a message.
G-d acquiesced. Moshe took over and taught them the ten commandments. The Jewish People got their picture. But it was a terrible failure. A failure that Moshe later criticized the Jewish People about right before he died.
They were so focused on themselves, on capturing the moment, that they missed out on the incredible experience of the moment itself. When you’re holding hands ones with a loved one, you don’t talk, it kills the beauty and the magic of the silence.
Years ago, I spent the last days of Pesach in B’nei Brak with my grandparents. I was davening in a small minyan for those of us who kept two days of Yom Tov. One of the people at this minyan was a great Torah scholar by the name of Rav Shmuel Berenbaum, he was the Rosh Yeshiva of the Mirrer Yeshiva in New York. After davening, they invited all those who participated in the minyan to a private meal with Rav Berenbaum. I attended, of course. I was sitting quite close to him and he started speaking, he started giving a lecture – in Yiddish. I don’t know about you, but I speak almost no Yiddish. I could have leaned over and said, “Bichvod Harav, with respect, everyone here speaks English, can you speak in English, or Hebrew?”
Instead I sat through a 45 minute lecture in a language I did not understand. Let me tell you, I have sat through many lectures in my life, and I’m embarrassed to say I have forgotten many of them. But not this one! I just sat there, not really understanding anything he said, and just watched his eyes. They were blue and they were on fire. It felt like sparks were shooting out of his eyes. I just took that in. For 45 minutes. It’s now twenty years later and I could still see those eyes boring through me.
Did I lose out by not capturing that moment? By not understanding what he was saying? No. I gained. I gained tremendously by experiencing the moment.
Sometimes we’re in a conversation with someone and they’re not being so clear. We try to understand but we can’t. Maybe it’s some dementia setting in, or maybe they just speak in a roundabout fashion and it’s impossible to follow. Sometimes we’re speaking to someone who has a viewpoint that is radically different than ours, politically or otherwise, and they’re just not interested in hearing our view. Or maybe we’re listening to a lecture and we can’t hear the speaker, or it’s just not a great speech. We are not going to walk away from any of these situations with anything concrete. But not everything has to be concrete, not everything has to be captured by my cellphone. There is an experience of the moment that is so much greater. The experience of giving someone kavod, honor, by just listening even when we cannot hear. Because sometimes the words don’t matter. Sometimes there’s far more to gain without the words. “Had you brought us to Har Sinai and not given us the Torah, dayeinu.”
There is a Medrash that says that when G-d spoke at Sinai, all the birds stopped chirping, all the dogs stopped barking, all the waves stopped crashing, it was absolutely silent. I always understood this to mean that the world was desperate to hear the word of G-d and so it silenced itself to hear Him. Rav Shimshon Pincus shares a very different understanding. He explains that it’s the other way around. First the birds stopped chirping and the dogs stopped barking and the waves stopped crashing and there was absolute silence. And once there was silence, we were able to hear the word of G-d.
We are physical and material beings. We are concrete and are most comfortable with the tangible. But once in a while an experience comes our way and we’re faced with a challenge; do I pull my phone out or do I sit back and experience the moment? Do I say, “What? I can’t hear you. I don’t understand. I disagree?” or do I just listen even if there’s nothing to hear?
The most G-dly, most spiritual, and most elevating moments in life are not captured, they are experienced.
by Ner Tamid | Jan 21, 2023 | Sermons
A few months ago, I was riding the Amtrak train from New York to Baltimore, sitting by myself, talking on the phone, when someone approached me, trying to hand me something. My first assumption was that this man was a Christian missionary. Who else gives things out to people – especially Jews? I finally looked down at what he had in his hand and saw it was a Chazzanus CD. I assumed maybe this man knew of my father – honestly, I wasn’t really sure. I took the CD and motioned that as soon as I got off the phone I would come over to him.
A few minutes later, I sat down with this man, who introduced himself as Zev Lewis. He was a philanthropist who had just commissioned a Conservative synagogue in New York to create a CD with cantorial music. We chatted for a little while, I told him about our shul, he told me about what he does, and that was it.
About a week later, I received a letter from Zev with a check for $100. So nice! I though to myself. This is not his shul, he goes to a Reform temple in DC, but this man is clearly very thoughtful and classy. So, I sent him a message, thanking him for his generosity.
A month later, I received a letter in the mail, this time with $50 cash, telling me to use it for my family for Chanukah. Now this was over the top. I barely know this man and he’s giving me Chanukah gifts. This time I picked up the phone to thank him. While we were schmoozing, he told me his foundation was about to give some major gifts so I figured I’d tell him about some things happening in our shul that could use sponsorship, hoping that maybe we would receive one of those gifts. I shared a project or two with him and waited to see how he would respond. After a long pause, he said, “I’ll be honest, none of these projects really speak to me or our foundation. However, I really appreciated how you called me to thank me. Not enough people do that. I’ll send you something.”
Two weeks later, I opened a letter from Zev Lewis to find a check for $10,000.
(We subsequently found something that was in line with his foundation and directed the funds to that project.)
Now let me ask you a question – was my being on that train a coincidence or not? If I remember correctly, I was actually supposed to take a different train and changed my ticket last minute. Was the fact that I was on that train two rows behind Mr. Lewis a stroke of luck, pure chance, or was it divinely ordained?
Most people I shared this story with said, “It was bashert!” The Yiddish word for something predestined. Others would say it was a sign of Hashgacha Pratis, which means, Personal Divine Providence. Hashgacha Pratis is the belief that everything that happens to us is divinely orchestrated, that there are no coincidences.
Sometimes we realize it – we receive a check in the mail for $10,000, and sometimes we don’t. But it’s always there. The Ramban, in explaining why we are constantly reviewing the story of the Exodus from Egypt, writes beautifully, how through the open miracles of the ten plagues, we, the Jewish People are supposed to open our eyes to the endless hidden miracles that take place every moment.
This belief in what I would call Extreme Hashgacha Pratis, how every single occurrence in my life is set up by G-d is part of the everyday education of our sons and daughters. They will be bombarded with beautiful stories of apparent mishaps that turn out to be blessings. Stories like people missing planes on 9/11 and the like.
Most recently, a mini-movement has developed, known as Thank You Hashem. It is a movement which promotes this idea – that no matter what happens to us, we need to say, thank you Hashem. You may have seen their bumper-stickers, #TYH, or countless other forms of TYH swag, they even make TYH jewelry. They composed a song, called, you guessed it – Thank You Hashem. The music video is filled with people losing their job or experiencing other mishaps, but learning to nonetheless say, “Thank You Hashem!”
Beautiful! No? What could possibly be wrong with more gratitude and more G-d-awareness?
Let me tell you another story. My wife was once seeing a client. A young woman who was really struggling. It turned out that this young woman was once violated, which she was obviously grappling with. But what she was really grappling with was – why did G-d want this to happen to me? What did I do wrong that I was deserving of this terrible punishment?
You see, if I believe in Extreme Hashgacha Pratis, that every single that happens to us is G-d pulling the strings, then just like G-d wanted me to sit down next to a future friend and donor of Ner Tamid, G-d also wanted this horrific violation to happen to me. I must be a terrible person. I must be scum of the earth. G-d must hate me. Why else would He do this to me?
I could just imagine the Thank You Hashem theme song screeching to a halt.
I remember being very moved by this young woman’s ordeal and her theological dilemma. I penned a little dark poem in response:
#ThankYouHashem for returning my precious soul
#ThankYouHashem for making me so whole
#ThankYouHashem for new opportunities each day
#ThankYouHashem for friends and family You have sent my way
#ThankYouHashem for making me so ill
#ThankYouHashem for depression, anxiety, and pills
#ThankYouHashem for loneliness each night
#ThankYouHashem for abusing me; I’m traumatized for life
There is a dark side to this belief of personalized Divine providence. I imagine that some, if not many of you have experienced this question on some level; why did G-d do this to me? Why is G-d punishing me?
The truth is that many great Jewish philosophers rejected this idea of Extreme Hashgacha Pratis. They argued that of course G-d is able to orchestrate anything, G-d is Omnipotent after all, but He most often does not (this is opposed to a heretical view espoused in Why Bad Things Happen to Good People, which claims cannot always act). The ten plagues, in this view, are the exception, not the rule. Yes, there is justice – we will be rewarded for our good deeds, punished for the bad, but for the most part, not in this world. Justice will take place in the next world. And yes, G-d can intervene, that is the premise of prayer – asking G-d to change nature, but for the most part, He does not. He allows nature to run its course.
Within this second view of how G-d manages the world, when something happens to us, good or bad, it’s nature. G-d did not, heaven forbid, want you to be violated. G-d did not want you to be ill. G-d created a world with the capacity for evil, with the capacity for illness, and for the most part, He stands back and allows nature to do its thing, the good, the bad, and the ugly. And again, to emphasize, G-d is cognizant of what is taking place on earth, but the way He set things up is that He does not regularly intervene.
When my wife shared this second approach with her student, her entire sense of self changed. You mean this was not a punishment from G-d? You mean I have every right to be furious at the man who did this to me? You mean G-d does care about me, and like a parent, at times, makes the incredibly decision to stand back? Yes. Yes, and yes.
Rav Yehuda HaLevi, a 12th century poet and scholar, in his magnum opus, The Kuzari, presents both views. He demonstrates the pros and cons of each one, there are philosophical and textual challenges to each one of these perspectives, and then he concludes with a pragmatic approach – assume that the big things in life come from G-d and take them to heart. The small things, not so much.
If he’s not willing to weigh in the I certainly will not do so either. I can’t tell you which one is right. I cannot tell you how to live your life – whether everything that happens is from G-d or everything, or most things that happen is a coincidence. I will leave that to you, to think about, to discuss, to debate. A sermon does not give us enough time to discuss this incredibly weighty topic properly.
But I do want to leave you with one definitive belief. Whichever way you land, extreme hashgacha pratis or a more hands-off approach, there is one belief that both these approaches agree on, and that I beg you to believe in as well. It’s a two line passage in a book called Tzidkas HaTzadik. Tzidkas HaTzadik was written in the late 19th century by a man named Rav Tzadok Rabinowitz, otherwise known as Rav Tzadok Hakohein. He was a young prodigy, married into a very wealthy family, and was set to live a life of uninterrupted scholarship for the entirety of his life. Unfortunately, things did not work out so well between him and his wife. He wanted to get divorced. She refused. He was forced to travel around Eastern Europe, penniless, with nothing to his name. He never had children and spent most of his life completely unknown.
In the 154th chapter of Tzidkas HaTzadik he writes, “K’sheim shetzarich adam l’ha’amin b’Hashem Yisborach, Just like a person must believe in Hashem, kach, with the same level of belief, with the same intensity, tzarich l’ha’amin b’atzmo, a person must believe in themselves. Ratzah lomar, meaning to say, sheyeish l’Hashem Yisborach eisek imo, Hashem cares about you… shenafsho mimkor HaChaim, that one’s soul is from the Source of all holiness, v’Hashem Yisborach misaneig umish’ta’sheia bah k’sh’oseh r’tzono, and G-d takes incredible delight when we fulfill His will.”
Whether our life is orchestrated by G-d down to the very detail or whether what is happening to us is simply nature running its course, G-d cares. A lot. About you. About me. About each of us. He is there, watching us, rooting us on, crying when we’re in pain.
Personally, I struggle with the #TYH bandwagon. But that doesn’t mean that I cannot say thank you, Hashem. My version, based on that teaching of Rav Tzadok, would sound something like this. This is the conclusion of the poem I wrote:
#ThankYouHashem for holding me when I am ill
#ThankYouHashem for understanding me when no else will
#ThankYouHashem for loving me despite my many flaws
#ThankYouHashem for life; with all its gifts and all its loss
