by Motzen | Sep 9, 2021 | Sermons
I’d like to begin with a little poll: Chocolate or vanilla?
Which taste do you like better?
Music from the 80’s, 90’s, or the past two decades?
Spicy food or sweet food?
Modern art or renaissance art?
Thank you to all those who participated. I wasn’t keeping track of who likes what, but it’s quite clear that we do not all agree, and that is fine. Isn’t it?
In Israel, there is a phrase, “al ta’am v’rei’ach ein l’hit’vakeiach, regarding taste and smell, there is no reason to argue.” It’s a proverb coined by Avraham Shlonsky, a Russian poet, and it doesn’t need much explaining. We have different tastes, it’s as simple as that. Some of it is genetic, some of it is the environment that we grew up in. You stop arguing about such things when you graduate, I don’t know, elementary school because it’s silly. Al ta’am v’rei’ach ein l’hit’vakeiach.
Let’s continue our poll: Is the temperature in our main sanctuary too hot, too cold, or Goldilocks-perfect?
How about the pace of services on a typical Shabbos – too fast or too slow?
Once again, we could invoke al ta’am v’rei’ach ein l’hit’vakeiach, there is no perfect temperature and there is no perfect davening pace. But these types of questions evoke a liiiittle bit more emotion, don’t they? Maybe because my taste on these questions have a direct bearing on you.
How about this one – Trump or Biden?
Masks or no masks?
It just got really hot in here, didn’t it?
Aside from being mad at me for bringing up politics and the most divisive questions of 2021 on the first day of Rosh Hashana, you may also be wondering what those questions have to do with this list. Mask-wearing and who to vote for are not questions of taste. They are questions of morality, of beliefs, of right and wrong.
That’s what it would seem, but it’s not so simple.
Dr. Jonathan Haidt is a prominent social psychologist and professor at NYU. In one of his best-selling books, The Righteous Mind, he lays out the case to describe our inner moral system as taste receptors. Just like we have all different tastes in food, in music, and in temperature, we also have different tastes in morality. This is not an analogy. He means it literally. Citing an exhaustive collection of data, he argues that just like our DNA defines how we respond to certain tastes, our genetic code significantly impacts our moral judgment.
His theory, again, backed up with significant evidence, is that we are born with moral inclinations that are predisposed to certain political parties and ideas. Each of us are born with a full palette of moral taste buds. And just like we are born with differing tastes for different foods, some of us have moral taste buds that are more strongly geared to one form of morality over others. Some of us are born with a strong moral “taste” for fairness and protecting the vulnerable. These people will likely, but not necessarily, vote Democrat. Some are born with moral taste buds that are especially sensitive to loyalty, respect of authority, the notion of sanctity, and liberty. These people will likely, but not necessarily, vote Republican.
To be clear, by saying that our moral taste buds are genetic, he does not mean that they are static. No one here liked brussels sprouts the first time they ate them, and no one here liked Scotch the first time they drank some (– despite pretending otherwise). Our moral taste buds are also malleable. Through nurture, through our social surroundings, they can change.
The implication of this theory cannot be overstated. This would mean that my moral decisions and your moral decisions are less a function of reason, and more a function of DNA. Which would mean that when we argue about moral issues, to some extent we are arguing over what tastes better, chocolate or vanilla.
Now some of you are likely quite offended by what I’m saying, silently screaming, “No! My political views are guided by pure reason!” (Which of course implies that the other person’s political views are guided by a lack of reason.) I know this is a lot to swallow. I know that you all feel like I have insulted your intelligence and all I have accomplished thus far, is uniting this very diverse crowd in a dislike for me. Okay.
But let’s run with this for a moment, or at least the possibility that it’s true. If Dr. Haidt’s theory is correct, then I cannot think of a more important idea to share with you this Rosh Hashana. Because if 2020 was the year of uncertainty, then this past year was the year of divisiveness. Elections that are still being contested almost a year later, bipartisanship of any sort being grounds for dismissal from one’s political party, an attack on the Capitol which left people dead and numerous police officers committing suicide in its wake, and none of this deep hatred is limited to Washington, which would be bad enough. It surrounds us, it’s in this room!
To make matters worse, we are shockingly masked up again, not only because of the Delta variant but because of a national debate over the safety and efficacy of vaccines, and because of a deep and growing distrust of the medical establishment – a distrust of any and all establishments. Covid killed millions of people. Divisiveness is destroying whatever is left.
And thanks to these national debates, our immediate surroundings, the Jewish Orthodox community we live in, is fracturing even further. We are a nation divided. We are a people divided. We are a community divided. This has been a year of divisiveness like no other.
In the leadup and aftermath of the elections, it was truly disturbing to hear friends discuss those who voted for a different party than them. For some reason, everyone assumes I vote for the same party they do. (They forget that I am Canadian, and I did not vote for anyone.) But they were candid, and this what I heard: “All liberals are socialist snowflakes.” “All conservatives are dishonest and immoral.” If you’re a mask-wearer, all those who don’t wear a mask are selfish. If you are not a mask-wearer, all those who do are sheep.
And once we’re at it, let’s be honest, how do we feel about our fellow Jews? Some of us may struggle with our relationship to Jews of different denominations, seeing them as cheapening and ruining our faith. Some of us may struggle with our relationship to other Orthodox Jews, seeing them as fundamentalists who are trampling on others to further their cause. And everyone is too right or too left – except for us. Mm hmm.
In the mid-1800’s, the Chassidic movement, still in its infancy, was being ripped apart by in-fighting. The center of much controversy was Rav Nachman of Breslov, a man known for his over-the-top statements and outlandish behavior. His followers were persecuted, chased out of many a town. Rav Nachman’s prime student, Rav Nosson penned an important piece where he explained to his followers that they should not bear any ill-will against those who persecuted them. Why? Because their opinions, the theories that animated their hate for the Breslov movement, stemmed from their unique shoresh haneshama, the root of their soul. Referring to the big fights in the Chassidic movement, he suggested that there is no right and wrong, it was a matter of individual souls being rooted in different places in the Heavens, and therefore possessing very different views. What Dr. Haidt describes as moral taste buds, Rav Nosson described as ‘roots of the soul.’ But they both agree, we have innate differences of opinion.
So maybe, just maybe, we can begin this year, coming off of a year filled with so much hate with a mantra. A mantra of al ta’am v’rei’ach ein l’hit’vakeiach. To run with the possibility that most people are not malicious, nor are they dumb. They, like us, are assessing every situation with a moral compass, only that our moral compasses, like our souls, are hard-wired differently. Of course, there are limitations to what is considered moral, and as believing Jews, the goalposts of morality are not that wide, but wider than we often assume. Al ta’am v’rei’ach ein l’hit’vakeiach. Let’s start there.
But it’s not enough. Al ta’am v’reiach ein l’hitvakeiach teaches us to stop arguing and hopefully stop hating. But we are encouraged to love every human being, Jew and non-Jew alike. We are commanded to love every Jew. Is this a Mitzvah that we can proudly say we fulfil?
This Mitzvah is important every day and especially today. The very first historical recording of the Jewish People celebrating Rosh Hashana, in the book of Nechemia, describes our ancestors, not listening to the Shofar, not spending the day in shul, not doing tashlich, or dipping apples in honey. Nechemia instructs the Jewish people to go home and to give gifts to one another and to establish new relationships. Why is that? Why are they told to be loving on this day?
Rav Yitzchak Hutner (Pachad Yitzchak, Rosh Hashana, 1) explains that on Rosh Hashana, the day that G-d chose to create us, which was an act of kindness and love, the greatest act of kindness! He does not need us. He chose to create us to give, to love. On this day we emulate Him by doing the same. Olam chesed yibaneh, G-d created the world, the ultimate act of love, and we are asked to create our own worlds of love, starting today. So how do we do so?
Rabbi Y.Y. Jacobson, a journalist and speaker, once described the difference between anti-Semites and Jews. An anti-Semite says, “I hate the Jewish People.” “The Jewish People are thieves.” “The Jewish People are a parasite.”
And then you ask this anti-Semite, “Okay, but what about your dentist, Dr. Weinstein?”
“Dr. Weinstein? He’s an exception.”
“And Stanley Green, your accountant? Don’t you trust him?”
“Oh, Stanley. He’s the most honest guy I know. But the rest of the Jews – they’re terrible.”
A Jew says, “I love the Jewish People. Am Yisrael chai. I would give my life for the Jewish nation.”
And then you ask him, “But what about Shloime, your neighbor? You know, the one you don’t talk to.”
“Shlomie? He’s an absolute jerk. Do you know what he did to me?!”
“And that group of guys who broke away from your shul and started their own minyan?”
“What a bunch of rabble-rousers, chutzpinyaks!”
The anti-Semite hates the Jewish People but has no problem with individual Jews. The Jew loves the Jewish People, but particular Jews… eh.
So how do we do it? How do we love not just “the Jewish People” but each Jewish person, especially today, when the disagreements run so deep? This is a Mitzvah we can all rally around. Loving your fellow Jew is not controversial. And yet, sometimes, it’s really hard to perform.
One of the exercises I do with my high school students, is I ask them to describe themselves. They typically tell me about their interests, about their favorite classes, and what they do in the summer. Try the same exercise in a non-Western country and you’ll hear another category of self-identification. The students, in non-Western countries will answer, “I am a child of my parents.” “I am part of this nation.” “I am a part of my family.” They will describe themselves and identify themselves as part of a group of people.
One of the great ideas that the Enlightenment brought to the Western world was the notion of individualism. Individualism, at its finest, means that every human is endowed with liberties and rights and this idea changed the world. It was the idea that helped overthrow tyrannical kings, it ended slavery, and it animated the civil rights movement, bringing personal rights and freedom to all.
But there is an underbelly to this idea, a negative and unintended consequence; the notion that each of us stand completely apart from one another, that we are a world onto our own, that I have no responsibility to anyone but myself; the goal of life, in this worldview, is to actualize my potential and to live my dream. Family may play a supporting role, and I will care for them, but my sense of self is exactly that – my self. Whereas in the ancient world, my identity was my family, my faith, my country. In the modern Western world, my identity is me.
Over the past twenty years, this notion of me being the center of the universe has been amplified and distorted. Think about it – the marketplace is no longer a place to sell ideas, we now sell ourselves, and incredibly – people are buying it. Reality television was the first hint to this phenomenon. Facebook posts highlighting my vacations, my dinner, my pet cat, liked by hundreds and thousands of people, make me believe that I am the center of the universe. Tik Tok videos of me dancing, talking, of me videoing my parents yelling at me, shared all over the internet, all reinforce one idea – we are all on a stage and we are all the star actor.
The Kabbalists explain that we all share one soul, what they describe as a nefesh k’lali. By all, I mean the entire world, not just Jews. But for today, or maybe for this year, let’s start small, seeing ourselves as one entity with the Jewish People. Not in the abstract, but with every particular Jew. You know what, forget every Jew! Can we see ourselves as one with every Jew in Baltimore? Can we do so with every Jew in this room? One entity.
How does seeing ourselves as one help anything?
It helps a lot. Franz Kafka, one of the great thinkers of the 20th century, grappled with the same question we are. He wrote, “What do I have in common with Jews?” Is that now what so many of us grapple with? How can I have something in common with Jews who are so different, who are so dangerous, who are acting so foolishly?
Listen to his answer: “What do I have in common with Jews?” he asked. And he answers, “I hardly have anything in common with myself.” “I hardly have anything in common with myself.”
As individual people, we are made up of a mess of good and bad, pride and shame, but we still like ourselves, don’t we? Despite some characteristics that we are quite embarrassed of. No? Can we look at the people around us with the same compassion? You’re a part of me, I am a part of you. We are one. That’s what it means to see ourselves as one. The same compassion we have towards our own shameful qualities, can we direct some of that self-love to others? Can we?
So we now have a floor, and we have a ceiling. At the floor, the lowest place we’ll be this year, we have the saying, al ta’am v’reiach ein l’hitvakeiach. We will fight for science, and medicine, for morality. But we will also realize that some people are hard-wired very differently than we are. And hopefully that phrase will catch us from stooping to saying or even thinking things that disparage others; not dumb, not evil, just hard-wired differently. The ceiling, what we are aspiring to is to see ourselves as one. What the Kabbalists describe as nefesh k’lali, a collective soul.
I imagine some of you are still stuck. It’s a lot to swallow, I get it. So allow me to conclude by sharing with you one final story. It’s a story I did not initially believe until I heard it from the granddaughter of the man it happened to, someone I trust, Rebbetzin Yocheved Goldberg from Boca Raton Synagogue, and it goes like this:
Yocheved, her last name was then Bruckstein, was a young girl in sleepaway camp, at Camp Chedva. On visiting day, her parents and grandparents came to see her. As they were walking through the campgrounds together, her grandfather walked by another older gentleman and nodded hello – and kept on walking. Yocheved’s father was curious. “Who is that man, dad? I’ve never seen him before.”
The grandfather initially tried to brush it off. “It was nobody.” But that made his son even more curious. “Who is he?”
And so finally the grandfather said, “He was my best friend before the war.”
“Your best friend before the war?! And all you did was nod?! What’s going on, dad? Why didn’t you give him a hug, or even talk to him?” The grandfather stopped walking. “Let’s find a seat, I want to tell you a story.”
They found a place to sit, and the grandfather continued. “As you know, I had a wife and a son in Romania before the war. I saw the writing on the wall; I knew what was coming so I got visas for myself, my wife, my son, and my in-laws, and I had plans to leave just before the Nazis arrived.”
“The day before I left, I went over to the house of my best friend; we used to study together, we shared so many ups and downs together, I couldn’t leave without telling him. I told him about the visas, I told him they were hidden away and that tomorrow I would be leaving. And we hugged each other goodbye.”
“The next morning, I went to get the visas – but they were gone. And so was my friend and his family.”
“The Nazis came, we were deported to Auschwitz, and I lost everyone; my in-laws, my beloved wife, and my precious son.”
The son could not believe his ears. “Dad, a moment ago I wanted to know why you didn’t hug him, now I want to know why you didn’t punch him in the face? He killed your family?! How could you even say hello to him?!”
And the grandfather replied, “Son, it was a different time. People were scared, people acted in ways they wouldn’t have otherwise. We cannot understand it. We just have to move on.”
Friends, we are living in a time of violent divisiveness, sinat chinam run wild, not just out there, but here. In our community, in our shuls, in our families. It does not have to be so. If Mr. Bruckstein could find it within himself to “move on” with the person who quite literally caused the death of all the people he loved, there is almost nobody that we cannot forgive.
We need to be compassionate with the knowledge that we are all hard-wired differently. No one is dumb, we are different. Al ta’am v’reiach ein l’hitvakeiach. At the very least, let’s stop fighting over matters of taste. We need to strive to internalize the reality that we share a nefesh k’lali; we are one. Lastly, even when we know people who have made terrible decisions, decisions that are lethal – when the dust settles, when this saga is all over, we need to forgive and to forget; we need to move on.
Barcheinu Avinu kulanu k’echad, bless us our Father, together as one.
by Motzen | Sep 5, 2021 | Sermons
Every once in a while, quite often actually, I am asked what my vision for the shul is. “What’s your dream, Rabbi, for Ner Tamid?”
Really these questions are a cover for very particular question. Though people use broad words like vision, or dream, they’re really just trying to avoid using a word that rhymes with pizza. Or maybe metzitza. And like pizza and metzitza, it’s a topic that is controversial and gives many people indigestion.
But today, it’s the last Shabbos of this crazy year, so I will answer the question. You’re ready?
This is my vision, my dream for Ner Tamid:
This past week, someone joined us for evening services. He was in mourning and asked to lead davening. He also happened to be a Satmar chossid, and so his davening sounded something like this: “Boo-reech ahtaw…” I loved it because I dream of a shul in which Jews of all stripes feel comfortable in these walls. All Jews. And that means that on Shabbos, no one should be able to find parking for at least five blocks around the shul, not because we endorse driving to shul on Shabbos but because people who do feel comfortable coming to our shul. It means that in the shul, you will see streimels and t-shirts, black hats and doilies, kippot srugot and no covering at all. All Jews. A shul in which Jews of all races, orientations, and all identifications can say this place is my spiritual home.
Though we sometimes struggle with our weekday minyan, what I love about it is its intimacy. It is such a small crowd that everyone seems to know each other’s name, everyone knows when a regular is missing. I dream of a shul where we may not all be best friends – that’s not realistic, but where everyone knows everyone’s name. A shul in which, if someone is missing even for a Shabbos, they get a call or a text to let them know they were missed.
Many children in this shul went to camp this summer. I love sleep away camp. The energy that is generated in those setting is very hard to replicate anywhere else. In speaking to these boys and girls there is one recurring theme – regardless of where they went to camp, one of their top highlights is Friday night services in camp, in which the campers, their counselors, the head stuff would welcome Shabbos with beautiful energy-filled singing and dancing. The energy in summer camps is awesome. I dream of a shul in which every Shabbos tefilah is like camp. A shul in which no one feels any inhibitions and lets loose with full-throated singing, with spirited dancing, every time the siddur opens.
Someone who is part of our community told me he’s going to Uman this Rosh Hashana. Every year there is a mass pilgrimage of Jews who go to the site of Rav Nachman of Breslov’s grave and celebrate Rosh Hashana there. These men leave their wives back at home – it’s men only. Someone sent me a meme in which a man tells his wife he’s going to Uman for Rosh Hashana and she says, “No problem. When you’re at the holy site, do yourself a favor and pray for a good shidduch.”
These people go to Uman because they can’t find services that are so soulful in America. I dream of a shul in which these spiritual seekers can find comfort. A shul in which is pin-drop quiet, but not deathly quiet – those shuls in which you’re afraid to talk lest you get silenced by the shushing czar. A shul in which people are quiet the way they are quiet in a museum of fine art, they are so moved, they just cannot speak.
One of our members, Nomi Maine celebrated her Bat Mitzvah this weekend. When Nomi and I were talking this past week, I learned that she is a big fan of Ariana Grande, a very popular singer. She told me that she wouldn’t mind getting a bottle of Ariana Grande’s latest perfume. I didn’t buy her a bottle of perfume as a gift, but I did look it up, and it turns out that her latest perfume is called, God is a Woman, and it’s inspired by Ariana’s song, God is a Woman. I looked up the lyrics of the song – and I quickly decided to not talk about the song!!
However, the subtext of the song title is a powerful challenge – why is G-d always referred to as a man? Why not a woman? Within the English language, it’s a good question; why do ‘genderfy’ Hashem? In Hebrew though, everything, even inanimate objects are either masculine or feminine, you have to pick one. But the challenge is not really about G-d; it’s about power, it’s about inequality, it’s about roles. And these are tough topics in society and especially so for Torah-observing Jews. We do believe that there are different roles for men and for women as expressed through the different Mitzvos. We also recognize that as opposed to a home setting where the is spiritual equality, or if anything, a far stronger set of responsibilities and opportunities for woman, in a shul setting, which has particular emphasis on minyan and things of that nature, Judaism comes across as terribly skewed.
I dream of a shul in which we do not oversimplify, we do not just do what others are doing, in which we continue to grapple with this question, and yet, we create endless opportunities for growth, for spiritual experiences, and advanced learning for women. I dream of a shul in which all the girls here have a spiritual role model, a woman who is on the payroll, who women can turn to for sensitive questions, for guidance, for Torah.
One thing that I love about our shul is that people care so deeply about communal and global issues. It is a community with a big heart. I dream of a shul in which that heart is expressed in action, in doing, in taking on projects, in using our collective energy to not just talk about the world around us but to change it.
We are a shul of Zionists and every once in a while, families get up and move to Israel. Making Aliyah is not for everyone. But I dream of a shul in which we are constantly losing members because they are living in Eretz Yisroel. These members are replaced by new members. And then we continue to lose members to Aliyah, who are replaced by new members. And on and on.
I dream of a shul in which Torah learning plays a central role in everyone’s life. In which classes are a supplement but everyone, in their own way, has a unique and personal relationship with this unbelievable heritage of ours and spends time every day, at home or at shul, studying these sacred texts. Growing through the uplifting teachings of our Sages.
I dream of a shul in which we comfortably talk about G-d and comfortably talk to G-d.
And lastly, one of the most famous and moving messages of the prophets are the words of Malachi: Hinei Anochi sholei’ach lachem es Eliyahu hanavi. G-d promises the Jewish People that one day in the future, He will send Elijah the prophet to herald the Messianic era. V’heishiv lev avos al banim, and the hearts of parents will return through the hearts of their children. This is the ultimate Jewish dream, for our children to surpass us spiritually. This is the Messianic vision of Malachi, that the arc of the spiritual universe is long, but it bends further with each generation.
And that is my dream for Nomi, and for all the children in this shul, that they live this dream. That they experience what it is to be a member of a community, of a shul in which everyone is accepted, in which the prayers are soulful and services are magically silent, in which people are constantly dancing and singing in prayer, in which girls and women, and boys and men, find opportunity, endless opportunity for spiritual growth, in which we change the face of our community by rolling up our sleeves, in which we deepen our connection to the land of Israel, in which we are all well-versed in Torah, Gemara, Halacha, and Jewish thought, in which we all have a relationship with G-d. I dream that the children not only experience this reality but that they pave the way to make it happen. That’s my dream.
When I spoke to Nomi, we discussed her career plans. She said, she might want to become a doctor or a businesswoman – which is awesome. She didn’t tell me where she wants to go to college and what grades she’s going to need to fulfill her dreams. And that’s because those are details. She is thinking big and that’s the only way to fulfill our dreams. The details will follow, but we cannot lose sight of the big dream.
There is a famous question asked, why we first celebrate Rosh Hashana and then Yom Kippur. Shouldn’t we first atone for our sins and then clean from our misdeeds, start the year with a fresh slate? It seems out of order.
Our Sages explain that the goal of Rosh Hashana is to think about the dream, the big picture, where we really want to be. Once we crystalize that picture, we then zoom in and focus on the many things that are getting in the way. And so we first celebrate Rosh Hashana, where we accept G-d’s kingship, and our role in His world. And then on Yom Kippur, we focus on our sins, the many impediments that are preventing us from living up to that dream.
There are details that we, as a shul, need to address if we want to live this dream. But they are details. Let’s not lose sight of the big picture. Let’s not lose sight of the dream.
May we be done with all the trials and tribulations of these past two years. May G-d bless us with peace, with harmony, and with health, so that we, together, can transform all of our dreams into reality.
by Motzen | Aug 2, 2021 | Sermons
What do Jackie Mason’s death, an Aufruf, and Parshas Eikev have to do with one another?
This is not a riddle; it’s what keeps rabbis like me up at night.
The answer, my friends, is Rabbi Hyman Krustofsky. Remember him?
Hyman Krustofsky is the father of a fictional character known as Krusty the Clown, a beloved personality on the Simpson’s. The voice of Hyman Krustofsky was none other than Jackie Mason.
Today, I’d like to share with you an analysis of Season 3, episode 6 of the Simpson’s. My mother, G-d bless her, would lose her mind knowing that the show she was most appalled by in the 90’s is the source of my sermon today. Ima, the show is still terrible, but the moral line of scrimmage has moved so far that the Simpson’s is now the 2021 version of Leave it to Beaver.
The reason I’d like to discuss this episode of the Simpson’s is because it is an excellent source-text for the many true role of love in Judaism.
For those joining us as guests, welcome to Ner Tamid! Where we acknowledge that virtually everyone in this community has watched the Simpson’s and try to make that meaningful.
If you’d like to walk out on me, now is a perfect time…
Okay, so there’s this guy called Krusty the Clown; he’s depressed, he’s antisocial, he’s an addict. He hates himself and yet, the children love him. Krusty the Clown is an outsized reminder to something we all know – that fame and adoration do not, on their own, bring joy.
Where does his depression stem from? The writers of the Simpson’s never make it clear. But in Season 3, episode 6, we learn about his childhood. It turns out that Krusty is Jewish. Not only is he Jewish but his father was a rabbi, and his father was a rabbi, and his father… you get the point.
The story goes that Krusty’s father, Jackie Mason, AKA, Rabbi Hyman Krustofsky, wanted his son to be a rabbi, but Krusty was not interested. Krusty wanted to go into showbusiness. And yet, he didn’t want to hurt his father. Eventually he does go into comedy, his father finds out, and banishes his son from his life, wanting nothing to do with him.
Now I’m going to pause because there’s a certain irony here. As many of you know, Jackie Mason was born Yakov Moshe HaKohein Maza. His father was considered by some to be on par with another fellow Lower East Sider – HaRav Moshe Feinstein. Jackie Mason came from a long line of esteemed rabbis and his father desperately wanted his son to become a rabbi. I’ve always wondered how Jackie Mason felt taking on this role of Rabbi Krustofsky, giving voice to what was likely very similar conversations his father had with him.
And it begs a question that every parent must face. We all have dreams for our children, we all want them to be healthy, to not inherit our flaws, only our qualities, to succeed in life, to be contributing members of society and good Jews. In an earlier generation, parents could tell their children what to do, they could make demands from their children. But sometimes it went too far, especially as it pertained to religion. In a flashback scene from that episode, we find Krusty’s father strangling him when he implies that he’s not interested in Judaism. There are many Krusty’s who felt strangled, not literally but figuratively. Collectively, as a Jewish People, we realized that fire and brimstone approach was the wrong one and so the word love and the word joy were rediscovered and brought into our spiritual lexicon.
But unfortunately, the pendulum has swung too far. Whereas in the past, parents were too strict, they’re now too lenient. Whereas in the past parents would not think twice before correcting their children’s every mistake, they now are afraid to give their children any direction. And there are terrible consequences. Children crave structure. Children need structure. Rules are crucial to the development of self-discipline. Rules and structure are the greatest gifts a parent can give their child. These are gifts they may not appreciate today, but they will regret not having them in the future.
To be clear, this is not a Jewish problem; it’s a societal problem. But as Jews it gets a little more complicated. I hear from parents who don’t want to push their children too much so they “pick their battles.” They will push their children to study and to get them tutors and to find support until they get straight A’s in math and science etc. But when it comes to Jewish practices or Jewish studies, “I don’t want to be too strict.” Or my favorite, “I want my children to discover the beauty of Judaism on their own.” I’ve never heard anyone say, “I want my children to discover the beauty of math and English on their own. If they want to go to school, it’s their choice.” If it’s real to you, if you believe that the Torah is a way of life, that G-d is real and we Jews have a special role to play, this ain’t the place to let the children decide.
So how do we find that balance? The balance between not strangling the child and not being afraid to discipline her? Between the seriousness of our calling as Jews and the joys of having a relationship with our Creator?
I am really not sure. I don’t have a formula – I wish I did. What I do know is I do know is that each and every parent must seriously grapple with this question of how we calibrate strictness with compassion, our vision of who our children should be with who they want to become, our respect for their choices and the conviction of ours.
Should we get back to the Simpson’s?
Bart and Lisa learn that Krusty is estranged from Rabbi Krustofsky and they devise a plan to reconcile father and son. Lisa does some research and sends Bart to go persuade Rabbi Krustofsky. And the two of them, Bart and Rabbi Krustofsky take part in a debate of sorts. Bart says, “Rabbi, does it not say in the Talmud that you should bring close with the right hand and push away with the left?” To which the rabbi responds, “Yes, but it also says, Honor one’s mother and father.” Bart says, “The Torah says that one should be soft like a reed and not stiff like a cedar.” To which the rabbi responds, “Yes, but it also says, You should study the Torah day and night.”
It’s an amazing dialogue and one to the credit of the writers of the Simpson’s that was well-researched. Unlike some other modern shows that depict Orthodox Jews… (H/t Eli Liebowicz) Maybe I’m reading too deeply into this but there’s much more than a fight over Biblical teachings taking place between Bart and Rabbi Krustofsky.
Bart is speaking to the meta of Judaism, some of the big ideas; compassion, flexibility, and change. Rabbi Krustofsky is speaking to particular Mitzvos; Kabed es avicha v’es imecha, and the Mitzvah of studying Torah.
There is a constant tension in Judaism between the forest and the trees. There are denominations within Judaism who only focus on the forest, the big ideas of Judaism, like justice or being a light unto the nations, and they ignore the trees, like Shabbos, Kosher, and Taharas HaMishpacha. There are other denominations that do the opposite; they study Torah, they keep all the Mitzvos to the tee, but there are no guiding principles, and they live a spiritually myopic life, uncaring about a larger role they have been asked to play in the world.
The Torah portion we read today, begins and ends with the details of the Torah, most famously, “V’haya im shomo’a tishme’u…If you keep my Mitzvos.” And G-d lays out the ‘tree’-version of the Torah; do what’s right and you get rewarded, do what’s wrong and you get punished. It’s a small-minded vision.
But then in the center of the Parsha, Moshe poetically calls out, “Mah Hashem elokecha sho’eil mei’imach, what does G-d really want?” What’s the big picture? What’s this really all about? “L’yirah es Hashem” to be in awe of G-d. “ul’ahavah oso” and to love Him.
You see, Rabbi Krustofsky and Bart were both right. Judaism, like any relationship, is made up of tremendous and powerful feelings expressed in small and seemingly insignificant ways. All relationships are fueled by a vision of deep and passionate love. But it’s generated by small gestures; by putting our phone down and making eye contact, by filling up a tank of gas and taking out the garbage, by allowing yourself to lose an argument and by giving a word of encouragement. Our relationship with G-d, no different than our relationship with other humans, has a big picture and many small details that bring the picture into focus.
Now the Rambam has a different take on the contradiction between the small-minded vision of the Torah; mitzvos and aveiros/ reward and punishment, and the big picture of love. He suggests, in his commentary on the Mishna, that there are stages and levels in our relationship with G-d. When we are young and immature, our relationship with G-d is one of details, instructions, and reward and punishment. I’ll do what’s right and give a Mitzvah note from G-d. That’s who the section of V’haya im shomo’a is speaking to. But as we progress, as we mature, as we become spiritually sophisticated, our connection to G-d which is so much more than this Mitzvah or that Mitzvah. It blossoms, or is meant to blossom, into a relationship of respect, awe, and love.
What the Rambam is speaking to is that in every relationship, there are levels. People say they fell in love with someone. Cool. That’s great. Guess what? You can fall in love with the same person again. And again. And again.
If you constantly invest in your relationship, the depth and the passion are endless. If you’re constantly looking to find new ways to give, if you’re open to the fact that you never really know your significant other and you approach them with a constant state of curiosity, you will fall in love over and over and over again.
In the final scene of that Simpson’s episode, Krusty the Clown is reconciled with his father. There’s no conversation between the, no explanations. They see each other and with tears in their eyes, they embrace. For an episode with so much depth, I was hoping for more dialogue, for them spending a little more time discussing their differences, until they could properly reconcile. Is it really accurate that father and son see each other after all these years and just embrace in love?
Dr. Erich Fromm, in his book, the Art of Loving, suggests that love is not natural to us. The Sefas Emes in this week’s Parsha, disagrees. Addressing the question of how the Torah can mandate us to love our fellow Jew and how the Torah can mandate us to love Hashem, the Sefas Emes writes that love is innate. There is a nekudah, a dot, a spark of love that exists within each and every one of us; a love for children, a love for a spouse, a love for everyone, and ultimately a love for G-d. That spark of love is waiting to explode, to burst out, to find an expression. Yes, a father and son who have been estranged for years can see each other and their love can find true expression immediately.
One final story – which brings us back to where we began, the overlapping stories of Krusty the Clown and Jackie Mason. In what was likely the final interview with the famous comedian, Rabbi Moshe Taub, a rabbi and historian met up with Jackie Mason and his wife to talk growing up in the Lower East Side. In the process of the interview, they got talking about Jackie Mason’s relationship with Rav Moshe Feinstein. Mason received his semicha from the famed rabbi, and the interviewer was curious about their relationship, especially after Jackie Mason dropped out of the rabbinate and eventually stopped observing Jewish Law. Taub was shocked to learn that Jackie Mason and Rav Moshe through all the years.
Unable to contain himself, the rabbi asked the comedian, “What did Rav Moshe say to you in those meetings?” In other words, how did Rav Moshe respond to this former student of his who walked away from the rabbinate and observant religion as we know it?
Jackie Mason looked Rabbi Taub in the eyes and told him: There was only one message he conveyed to me in every one of our conversations. Love, love, love.
While this story is both beautiful and shocking, it really should not be. In today’s Haftorah, we read how the Jewish People, after having sinned the most horrendous of sins, assumed that G-d had forsaken them. How could G-d have anything to do with such sinners? Why would He want to stay in touch in any way?
And Hashem lovingly responds, “Does a mother forget her child?!” Of course, I will never forsake you. You are my child, and I love you.
Love gets a bad rap in Judaism. Ask an academic and they’ll tell you that love is a Christian trait. Ask some of the most observant Jews and they will poo-poo love. They’ll argue for yiras shamayim, the fear and dread of Heaven, but love, they’ll tell you, is fluff.
And it’s just not true. Love is paramount in Judaism. Love is the core emotion in Judaism; a love for one another, a love for oneself, and a love for Hashem.
Yes, as we discussed, it needs calibration. And at the same time, if done right, we could fall deeper and deeper in love; falling for our loved ones and for G-d time and time again.
And that is our bracha to you, Hillel, and to all of us… That we appreciate the central role of love in Judaism. That we all recognize that we have the capacity to be loved and to love. That we all learn to appreciate the value of the trees and the value of the forest; never losing sight of one for the other. And that we all experience the incredible joy of falling in love over and over and over again.
by Motzen | Jul 18, 2021 | Sermons
In a Facebook post this past week, a prominent Jewish thinker and teacher wrote as follows:
“It’s time to stop using the expression “broken home.” Please.
As a child of divorced parents,” she goes on to write, “I… wish that my parents hadn’t lined us up on the living room couch and told us that they were getting a divorce. But as the oldest, I felt the burden of their unhappiness on us, and that, too, was too much for children to bear.
Now 40 years later, in a loving marriage of my own and with children and grandchildren, I have one thing to ask of a society so sensitive about language. It’s time to drop the expression “broken home.” Each time I hear the expression, it breaks my heart a little. I want to shout back: “I am not broken. I am strong. And I am loved.””
With all due respect, and I mean that in the fullest sense of the expression, as I have the utmost respect for the writer of this comment – I disagree.
While she does go on to acknowledge that of course, divorce causes the children to be broken in some way, she argues that so many other things in life break you as well.
And that is true, so many things break you as well. But I would argue that none break you quite the same way as a broken family. And that’s something that we as a society seem to have forgotten – the value of an intact family.
In 2021, 40% of births take place outside of the context of marriage. This is up from 28% in 1990, and far higher than most other countries. Almost 50% of marriages in the US will end in divorce. And over 50% of Americans are single, whereas in 1950, that number was 22%. Something changed. Something dramatic changed.
While we all know how essential family is, admittedly, it’s hard to explain. The arguments against family, or the predominant modern way of thinking that may not be opposed to family, but certainly does not see family as being all that important, has some compelling questions for us, such as:
Why burden ourselves to this commitment called marriage? It’s just a ‘construct’ anyway? And if it’s not working, move on.
Why bother having children? Or why bother having more than 1.9 children with all the obligations and burdens it entails?
Why invest so much energy into familial relationships? If my siblings do not get along with me, who cares? I have plenty of good friends.
And at the end of the day, it’s just biology!
Maybe this thinker was right, a broken family is just one of many ways to be broken. What is family anyway?
And yet, we all know intuitively, even if we cannot articulate it, that family and family relationships are so important. There is a certain magic and comfort that we -usually- find with our family. What is it? What is the magic of family?
According to the Torah, the significance of family is not the shared DNA. The significance of family is the invisible matter that stands between us. It is the responsibilities that bind us – the care that a parent must provide a child, the respect a child must give to a parent, the concern a sister must have for her brother, and the commitment that a husband and wife must have for one another. And not only is it commitments that bind us, it is our family stories; the shared experiences, the joys and the setbacks and everything in between, that mold us into a single entity.
Responsibilities to one another and shared identity, two of the highest values in our faith, and simultaneously, those are two values viewed as backward and archaic by much of our society. Our society celebrates rights, not responsibilities. Our society celebrates the individual, not the collective. The pillars upon which family are established, a sense of identity broader than just myself, an alterable responsibility, are no longer in vogue. So it’s no surprise that families are falling apart.
***
In defense of the author of that aforementioned Facebook post, her main point was to not box in the children of a divorce; to not see them as less than or to make assumptions of their ability to have a solid relationship. And with that, I fully agree. Many have incredibly successful and loving relationships. But not because they were not and are not broken; they are. One way or another, the trauma of not having a full family cannot be escaped. Someone who has a prosthetic leg and successfully runs a marathon, still has a prosthetic leg. Similarly, someone whose family is not intact and has a wonderful marriage, still has an essential part of them, that is broken. If they are successful in not perpetuating what they experienced, it is not despite what they saw, it is likely because of it. My parents got divorced when I had already moved out of the home. I was independent. And nonetheless, there is a part of me that is forever broken. So yes, I firmly believe and try to live with the idea that divorce should not define a child of divorced parents negatively, but it will always define them. Our parents, our siblings, our children, are an integral part of who we are. Any fracture in those relationships is a fracture in our identity.
***
Tonight, we will be commemorating the destruction of the Bais HaMikdash. As we all know, its destruction is attributed to Sinas Chinam, baseless hatred. The story that is meant to illustrate this point is found in Meseches Gittin, the story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza It’s a story of a man who is friends with Kamtza and an enemy with Bar Kamtza. This man makes a party and sends an invitation to Kamtza but the invitation ends up with Bar Kamtza. Bar Kamtza comes to the party, the host throws him out of the party, and Bar Kamtza goes ahead and informs on the Jewish People to the Romans which leads to the destruction of the Bais HaMikdash. This is THE story of baseless hatred; how the host hated Bar Kamtza, how Bar Kamtza hated the Jewish People.
Now who is to blame in this story?
The host, presumably. Bar Kamtza, most certainly.
And yet, the Talmud tells us that Kamtza is also to blame. Rav Yochanan proclaims that the Bais HaMikdash was destroyed because of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza. Now what did Kamtza do? He doesn’t even show up in the story?!
The Maharsha suggests that Kamtza was Bar Kamtza’s father. Bar, after all, means, the son of. Bar Kamtza is the son of Kamtza.
You see, the real story of Kamzta and Bar Kamtza is not one of societal hatred; it’s a story of a broken home. It’s a story in which a father does not have a loving relationship with his own child; how he is able to be best friends with a man who hates his own son. That is the sinas chinam, the baseless hatred, that we are meant to work on during this time. Yes, our society needs healing, but our first responsibility is healing our home.
***
On most years on Erev Tisha B’av, it is customary to eat an egg before the fast begins. An egg is a sign of mourning, some explain, because it is round, and reminds us of the cycle of life. I wonder if perhaps we eat an egg because its shell reminds us of the fragility of life. Perhaps we eat an egg to remind us how easy it is to lose what is important to us unless we constantly invest in it.
We all know how important family is – everyone here will tell you it is the most important thing in the world. But family, a solid family, takes work and effort; we need to constantly remind ourselves how fragile the bond between us is, especially in a world where the value of family is cheapened.
Obviously, not every marriage is meant to last forever, as Jews we believe in divorce. Not every parent-child or sibling to sibling relationship can be maintained, there are times when estrangement is the right thing to do. This is not a critique or commentary on any particular person or decision. It is an observation that as a society, we cannot lose sight of the importance of family and how we are obligated to those closest to us before anyone else; our family’s identity is our identity and family is our primary responsibility.
And so, we cannot work on bridges between communities or within communities, until the bridges of our own family are intact and strong. We cannot refrain from gossiping about others but speak about siblings behind their backs. We cannot afford to read books, listen to podcasts, or go to trainings on becoming better professionals before we become better parents, spouses, and siblings. We cannot spend so little time with our family, and when we do allow it ourselves to be so distracted. Let’s not allow ourselves to forget that the most precious things in life are fragile, nor to be swayed in thinking that family is unimportant. We know that a broken family is the worst form of brokenness.
One of the most well-known prophecies of the Messianic era, one that we sing at every Jewish weddings is, Od yishama b’arei Yehuda uv’chutzos Yerushalayim, there will be heard again in the cities of Judah and the courtyards of Jerusalem, kol sasson v’kol simcha, the sound of joy and happiness, kol chassan v’kol kallah, the voice of the groom and the voice of the bride. We believe that the rebuilding of the Temple begins with the rebuilding of the home. May we see them both rebuilt speedily in our days.
by Motzen | Jul 12, 2021 | Sermons
How long can I beg Him to take me home when all I need to do is buy a ticket?
How long can I beg Him to rebuild Jerusalem when a new development sprouts every week?
How long can I beg Him to “see with my eyes” when all I have to do is open them?
My hypocrisy chips away until my soul is calloused. My prayers become more superficial by the day; my dreams more faint. My heart is in the East… I think. At least that’s where I saw her last.
***
So I fly on eagles wings to where I belong. I take in the sights, the sounds, and the smells of my beloved city until she overwhelms my senses. I caress the stones, kiss the walls, I’m infatuated by her beauty.
But in those narrow streets, I seem to lose sight of You. In the roar of Torah learning and heady spirituality, my soul is deaf to Your loneliness. In the heart of Jerusalem, I have forgotten; I am home, but You are not here.
My heart is not in the East.
My heart is with You.
Please come home.
by Motzen | Jun 20, 2021 | Sermons
The Parah Aduma, the Mitzvah of the Red Heifer, is introduced with the words, Zos chukas hatorah, this is the LAW of the Torah. Rashi explains that this Mitzvah is called a chok, an absolute law, as a response to the taunts of our evil inclination and the nations of the world. Says Rashi, when they hear about the laws of the Red Heifer, they mock us and persuade us to not follow the Torah. They say: “Look! This law makes no sense! None of them make sense!” and they laugh at us. And we respond, “You’re right, this Mitzvah makes no sense, but it is a law, a chok, a decree from our King and so we accept it.”
Now I’ll be honest, my evil inclination is very talented and very clever, but he has never woken me up in middle of the night, and said, “Psst!”
What is it?
“Don’t go to shacharis tomorrow morning.”
Why not?
“Parah Aduma”
That’s never happened.
There are many things I don’t understand that do keep me up at night, such as:
Why my children who never want to hear a helmet, or a seatbelt, who jump off porches and wrestle viciously with one another, are afraid to walk outside because of cicadas.
Or, why Seven Mile Market switched from their blue bags to white bags? That makes no sense.
Those blue bags are the punchline of every Baltimore joke I have ever heard. It’s iconic. It’s like switching the colors of the American flag…
Or, I don’t understand how Naftali Bennet’s kippah stays on his head. And yes, I heard about the chewing gum, I don’t buy it.
There are many things in life that make no sense, Parah Adumah just doesn’t make the cut. And yet, our Sages see the Parah Adumah as the quintessential irrational law.
Why is that? What is it about this law that is so hard to understand? That could be used as an attack on our faith more than any other Mitzvah? There are plenty that are hard to understand – why this?
Let’s take a step back and describe the ceremony of Parah Adumah that we’re discussing. In the times of the Bais HaMikdash, when a Jew came into contact with the dead, they would assume a status known as tamei, or impure. While impure, there were certain foods they could not eat, certain places they could not go, and certain contact that need to be avoided. To remedy the situation, a Red Heifer is burned, its ashes are mixed with water from a spring – known as a mayim chaim – and the mixture is sprinkled on the individual who is tamei. At that point, two things happen – the individual who was tamei becomes pure and the individual who was previously pure who handles this mixture of ash and water, that person becomes tamei.
The Rambam in Mishna Torah shares his opinion that this entire process, from beginning to end, is beyond our comprehension. The notion of impurity, the process of purification, and of course the strange finale where the purifier becomes impure and the impure becomes pure – none of it can be understood. But Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch develops an elegant and profound idea which I want to share with you this morning:
Rav Hirsch explains that Tumah is not simply a mystical state, it reflects a psychological reality. When we come into contact with death, not just physically, but when we come face to face with tragedy, when we become cognizant of our mortality and the fleeting nature of existence, when we acknowledge our pettiness and how small-minded us humans can be, our natural reaction is to recoil, to shut down. What’s the point of trying? What are we really accomplishing anyway? What are we doing here?
The laws of Tumah create a space for such feelings and emotions. We mourn. We cry. We stop and we sit with those dark thoughts.
But then, after a period of time, we’re invited to change those thoughts – we are told that we can return to society, we can reintegrate, we can move beyond the debilitating feelings of loss and small-mindedness. And the way we do so is profound.
Many people mistakenly respond to sadness by fighting it, by pushing it away and ignoring it, by candy-coating the pain of life with sugar.
“I’m having a bad day” – “It could be worse.”
“I lost my grandmother.” – “At least she lived for so long.”
Or, my favorite, “Just be positive!”
Ignoring or belittling pain doesn’t take it away, it makes it worse. The Torah instructs us that the way to counter the psychological state of tumah is by taking mayim chaim, water from a bubbling spring, which represents life and all that’s good and positive, and we mix it with eifer, with ashes from the corpse of the heifer, representing death and sin. We heal by feeling the pain and the darkness and also making room for everything else that’s beautiful and uplifting as well; ashes of death and water of life – the full gamut of human experience and existence. Destruction, loss, sin are a part of who we are, but so is creating, so is new life, so is purity! It’s the tension between these two that makes life so beautiful. The most gorgeous time of day is sunrise and sunset, when the darkness clashes with the light. It’s when we allow those contradictory feelings to rub against one another that we are at the peak of our creativity and the heights of our spiritual experience.
This idea stands at the core of monotheism, the co-existence of good and evil within one being, and this is what the nations do not understand and what our evil inclination deceives us with. They persuade us to believe that light clashes with darkness, that we are either close to G-d or distant from Him. That we are either good or bad. That we are either happy or sad. What they don’t realize is that G-d “forms light and creates darkness” that “even as I walk through the shadow of death, I fear no evil, because G-d is with me,” that even when I hide from G-d, He’s right there, holding me up, giving me life. It’s the mixture of light and darkness, that’s where the beauty is found.
***
Earlier this week, I was flipping through the latest copy of the WhereWhatWhen, and I saw a letter to the editor that caught my eye. The anonymous writer took the publication to task for publishing the many stories involving someone struggling with mental health, the news items that described tragedy, and the columns that speak of people in different forms of distress.
My gut reaction, “This is ridiculous! Life’s tough. Deal with it. More toxic positivity, that’s all we need.”
None of you wrote it, right?
But on further reflection, there’s some validity to what the author wrote. You see, I didn’t share with you the entire piece from Rav Hirsch. He continues this beautiful piece with something that took me, and is still taking me, time to digest. It’s an idea which at first glance contradicts what he just said, but I don’t think it does, and it goes like this:
Rav Hirsch addresses the most mysterious feature of the ceremony. Why is it that the man or woman who was impure becomes pure and can now reenter society, but the individual who officiates the ceremony, he becomes impure? How are we to understand that?
He Hirsch explains that yes, the way to move away from darkness is by embracing it. But the individual who is not thinking about his or her mortality and the fleetingness of life, the individual who is not awake to the feebleness of our minds and the self-deceptions that we allow ourselves to be guided by, that person must not be exposed to the ashes of death. Because when they are, they become tamei, they cannot escape its impact.
Rav Hirsch is arguing that death and darkness should not be a part of our everyday thinking; that darkness is acknowledged but never invited.
***
Maybe he’s right. Maybe as a society, we have gone too far in our rejection of toxic positivity and become a little bit too negative, too cynical, and a little bit too dark. Listen to the music, the literature, the way people talk – I love it, but it’s depressing. Maybe as a people, we should start to take our birthdays as seriously as we take our Yahrtzeits – a little more life, a little less death. Maybe we should utilize our laser sharp cynicism that allows us to see right through the words and deeds of others and ourselves and use that penetrating scrutiny to find the good which is right there as well. The individual who is not tamei must not touch the ashes of death.
I struggle with this idea because being happy all the time, being positive, strikes me as superficial. But it’s not.
The Baal Shem Tov was once asked why his followers always seem so happy. “Are they deaf to the pain in the world? Are they blind to all the suffering around them?”
The Baal Shem Tov responded, that no, they weren’t deaf or blind at all. On the contrary, they had developed such an exquisite sense for the beauty of the world that they could find it where others don’t see it at all. They see the positive that exists around them in a far more sophisticated fashion than everyone else.
So yes, when we find ourselves in a pandemic, we acknowledge the angst and pain. When we heaven forbid, lose a loved one, we acknowledge the gaping hole. When we find ourselves in a cloud of fog or darkness, we embrace it and see its beauty. And that’s a hard lesson that our Yetzer Hara prevents us from understanding.
But perhaps even harder, perhaps something that at least for some of us, takes even more work, is the ability to avoid tumah, to seek out the good, to buck the trend of cynicism, to think more positively, to speak more positively, to surround ourselves by positivity, and to develop the sophistication needed to see the good that surrounds us at all times.
