by Ner Tamid | May 18, 2025 | Sermons
Ner Tamid is a mysterious place. There are a whole bunch of things that no one has good answers to. For example, why is it, that despite our shul being in the least public place in Baltimore has a door code that to use one needs to have a PhD in Jewish numerology? Or what exactly is on our roof that when it rains it sounds like we are davening outdoors in a rainforest? How does the kugel get finished so soon after I finish making kiddush? Who managed to get random toys stuck in the light fixtures in the social hall?
These are questions that should keep any self-respecting member of our shul up at night.
However, the mystery I’d like to address today is a personal one – what’s with the rabbi and his cup of water? I’ve never been to a shul where every single Shabbos, the rabbi fills up a cup and takes a sip before he begins talking. What’s the deal? (Also, why does the rabbi speak about himself in the third person…)
Before we solve the great Ner Tamid mystery, let’s take a look at our parsha. Our parsha begins in a rather politically incorrect fashion. It teaches us how Kohanim who have blemishes of different sorts, handicaps, some visible and some not visible at all, are invalidated from working in the Temple. אִ֣ישׁ מִֽזַּרְעֲךָ֞ לְדֹרֹתָ֗ם אֲשֶׁ֨ר יִהְיֶ֥ה בוֹ֙ מ֔וּם לֹ֣א יִקְרַ֔ב לְהַקְרִ֖יב לֶ֥חֶם אֱלֹהָֽיו׃ In other words, not only was the Bais Hamikdash not ADA compliant, it was anti-ADA. Handicapped individuals cannot work here.1
Before I share with you an approach to how we should think about handicaps and disabilities from a Jewish perspective, allow me to share with you an approach to how we should not think about handicaps and disabilities:
Yitzchak Perlman contracted polio at the age of 4. Ever since, he has had to wear metal braces on his legs and often he has to walk with crutches. He also happens to be one of the greatest violinists of our time. There is an apocryphal story told about a particular concert. He came out onto the stage, walking slowly and laboriously util he got to his seat. He gently lay down his crutches, placed the violin under his chin, and right before he began, he tuned one of his strings, when all of a sudden, with an audible snap, one of the strings broke. The audience was expecting him to send for another string, but instead he signaled for the conductor to begin, and he proceeded to play the concerto on only three strings. At the end of the performance the audience gave him a standing ovation; they never saw anything like it. Perlman asked for a mike, and what he said summarized his entire life. “Our task is to make music with what we have.”
Here was a man who was given a form of a death sentence, the inability to walk, the inability to function like a regular person, and yet, he managed to navigate the hurdles sent his way, he overcame them and became a world-famous violinist.
It’s a beautiful and inspiring idea, but it’s missing a critical component that one can only appreciate with a deep faith in G-d. Let’s talk about the Torah’s perspective on disabilities. Inasmuch as the Torah prohibits a Kohein with a disability to serve in the Mishkan, the most consequential Jew to have ever lived had a disability – Moshe. Moshe was born or developed a significant speech impediment. When G-d appeared to him and demanded that Moshe stand before Pharaoh, Moshe pushed back. “Thank you, G-d, I’m flattered. I’m not sure if You noticed, but I can’t speak properly. How in the world do You expect me to be the spokesperson for the Jewish People?!”
G-d does not tell him, “Our task is to make music with what we have,” or, your task is to speak despite your limitations. No. G-d says, “Mi sam peh l’ileim, who gave speech to the mute?”
It’s a very cryptic response, but it’s explained beautifully by Rabeinu Nissim of Gerona. Says Rabbeinu Nissim, G-d was saying as follows: “Moshe, you think I don’t recognize that you have a speech impediment? Who do you think gave you that mouth, who created you with that deficiency? I did, said G-d. And I did so for a very significant reason.”
You see, the Jewish People, after leaving Egypt, were going to be given the Torah. The Torah, as we know, has many laws and many restrictions. G-d was concerned that the Jewish People would years later claim that they were duped, they were talked into it. They would say that they had this leader, a fantastic orator, who sweet-talked them into accepting the Torah. We’ve all experienced that. You ever walk into a store planning on buying one piece of furniture that’s on sale, and then find out that the one you plan on buying is made of terrible quality, and what you really need to buy is the newest brand, and that you really must buy insurance to protect your furniture against a nuclear war, all because some smooth-talking sale-person talked you into it? The Jewish People would say the same thing. Imagine if Moshe Rabbeinu spoke as well as Rabbi Jontahan Sacks. We got duped! We never really wanted the Torah! Rabbi Sacks could have persuaded us to do anything!
But what if the salesperson couldn’t finish their sentences? What if he stammered? What if you had to wait patiently until he finished his sentence? Could the Jewish People make such a claim? Absolutely not.
That’s what G-d was telling Moshe: “Yes I know you have a speech impediment; I was the One who gave it to you. I gave you that speech impediment so that you could fulfill your mission in life! You wouldn’t be fit to give the Jewish People the Torah if you didn’t have a speech impediment! Mi sam peh l’ileim, who created and gave you that disability? I did.”
We all have our own unique mission in life. There is a reason we are placed on this earth. But sometimes we think we’re not fit for the job. We have too many ‘disabilities’. I don’t have patience; how can I deal with my family or co-workers. I don’t have a good head; how could I study Torah?! What G-d was telling Moshe with those words of mi sam peh was that there are no mistakes. That speech impediment, or lack of memory, IQ, family trauma, mental health challenges, whatever deficiency it may – it’s all there for a reason! It’s part of the package! Our disabilities, our “weaknesses,” they aren’t an oversight, they are part of who we are, and what we are expected to do.
The Tzemach Tzedek, the third Lubavitcher Rebbe, suggests that this is why Kohanim who have a disability do not work in the Bais Hamikdash. Not because they’re not wanted there. It’s because they are wanted somewhere else; they have a different mission to fulfill. The role of the Kohanim is to connect people to G-d. Some people come to the Bais Hamikdash to find Him and there are Kohanim there to help. But there are other people, usually people who are hurting in one way or another, who do not have the inner strength to come to the Bais Hamikdash, or perhaps in modern times, can’t bring themselves to come to shul or engage in Judaism in any fashion. They may have had a difficult childhood, they may be experiencing some distress, and they remain at home. Who is able to reach them? Who is able to empathize with them and make them feel seen and heard? The Kohein who is dressed in regal clothing, the Kohein who is tall and fit, the Kohein who was respected from the day he was born, that Kohein can’t necessarily understand the man or woman who is stuck at home; he doesn’t have the life experience to give him that type of insight.
But the Kohein who was always chosen last for the baseball team, the Kohein who people looked at and quickly looked away, the Kohein who had his own fair share of pain, that Kohein can put his arm around that person in pain, look them in the eye, and say, “I get it.”
As people who believe in G-d, who believe in a G-d that is intimately involved in our lives, we do not ask how we can get around our disabilities, how our disabilities can be overcome. No. Instead we ask, in what way can I use this experience to fulfill my personal mission here on earth?
Which brings me back to my cup of water.
About three years ago, I fainted up here on the pulpit. I was probably sick and dehydrated. Whatever it was. As I shared with the congregation on the following Rosh Hashana, what followed was five months of intense panic attacks every time I got up to speak. It was hell. Sometimes I couldn’t speak at all. Sometimes I spoke while sitting down. And other times, I spoke, and it may have looked just fine, but in my head, I was using every technique in the book and barely got through it. Since that Rosh Hashana, I have not missed a sermon due to any panic attacks, but I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t still deal with them.
And it’s bizarre! Before that Pesach, I had no anxiety about getting up here; this was my happy place. When you’re 5’5 and you get a chance to stand up high on this pulpit and see the top of people’s heads, I loved it! But since that time, and yes, even since that Rosh Hashana three years ago, I have grappled with getting up here.
Sometimes I wouldn’t feel anything at all until the last moment. Sometimes I’d be sitting in my seat doing deep breathing during leining. Sometimes I would get hit with a wave as I stood up here. One of the techniques that I developed for myself was this – the cup of water. Knowing that I could pause and take a sip at any point, knowing that I could take a break in middle of a drasha, grounded me.
I don’t need your sympathy, and frankly, I don’t want your sympathy. Baruch Hashem, as time goes on it has gotten easier and easier. And I am also open to the fact that I may one day faint again at this pulpit, you’ll all freak out, and then I’ll make a drasha about it the next week. It’s all good.
More importantly, a panic attack is nothing compared to what so many people in this room deal with every single day. Statistically speaking, there are a good number of people in this room who have extreme anxiety and depression and other mental health challenges. Statistically speaking, there are a significant number of people who have familial distress and so many other challenges they deal with daily. We all have something, a ‘disability’ we are dealing with, and I am no exception.
Yitzchak Perlman would tell me that I must figure out how to overcome this challenge. But Rabbeinu Nissim and the Tzemech Tzedek would encourage me to ask myself what I can learn from it and how it can help me in my life mission. Perhaps like the Kohein who was disqualified from the Avoda, perhaps G-d wanted me to open my eyes a little wider to all the pain in this world, not only the visible pain, but the invisible pain which is so often so much worse.
Mi sam peh l’ilem? Who gave me this challenge? Who gave you your challenge? G-d did. And He did so for a reason.
by Ner Tamid | May 4, 2025 | Sermons
My children tell me I talk about Christianity too often. They tell me that it’s weird for a rabbi to say Jesus from the pulpit as often as I do. They’re probably right. But, in my defense, for the past 1500 years so much of our history has been directly influenced by Christianity that it’s hard to escape. So today, as Catholic leaders are busy negotiating behind closed doors who will be the next pope – a question that has tremendous ramifications to Israel and to the Jewish People, I think it’s a good a time as any to talk about Christianity in general, and Pope Francis in particular. And to my children, just chalk this up as another argument you lost to your father…
There are a number of alleged mentions of Jesus in the Talmud. I say alleged because there is much scholarly debate if the individual or individuals mentioned are actually Jesus or someone else. My favorite story is one found at the end of Maseches Sanhedrin involving Rav Yehoshua ben Prachya. The story goes that Rav Yehoshua ben Prachya, one of the leading sages of his time, was travelling with his students when one of the students made an indecent comment. Rav Yehoshua was shocked by his student’s comment and banished him by putting him in cherem. The student, named Yeshu, which is Hebrew for Jesus, begged his teacher for forgiveness numerous times. Each time he was rejected. Until finally, the student came to ask for forgiveness, and his teacher, Rav Yehoshua, was ready to forgive him, only that he was davening. So instead of speaking, he motioned to his student. Rav Yehoshua meant, hold on a moment. Yeshu understood him to indicate that he should go away. And he did. The Gemara concludes that all the evil that befell the Jewish People at the hands of this man and his followers were caused by the great sage, Rav Yehoshua ben Prachya.
I love this Gemara because it is a perfect example of how Jews are supposed to learn history. We do not point fingers. We do not vlame or play the victim. Instead of highlighting all the things that Jesus and his followers did to us, the Gemara challenges us to ask, what did we do wrong in this situation? How can we grow? How can we change?
I love this Gemara, but the Christian censors in medieval Europe did not. They felt like it was offensive and forced the printers to remove the whole story from the Talmud. If you have an older edition of the Talmud from a Christian country, that section would be missing.
Of course, censorship was the least of our problems for much of medieval history. As James Carroll observes, Christianity was originally a movement that opposed violence and power. And yet, Constantine, the Roman Emperor came along and made Christianity synonymous with power and violence. For the next thousand years, Jews were persecuted for their faith by their Christian neighbors.
In the 15th century, a decision was made by the leaders of the Inquisition that would have ripple effects all the way to the Holocaust. Until that point in history, Jews were evil because they chose to reject who they believed to be the true messiah. But in the 15th century this posed a problem. Many Jews, especially in Spain and Portugal, started converting to Christianity. The church was not happy; they had all sorts of incentives, political and financial to continue discriminating against these converted Jews. And so they decided to discriminate against Jews not because of their faith but because of their race, allowing the church to lead a witch-hunt against Jews who converted, who they described as Marranos, literally, pigs. Carrol argues that this shift, from discriminating by faith to discriminating by race, paved the way for the Nazis a few hundred years later, to do the same. The road from Rome to Auschwitz, argues James Carroll, is a straight one.
It’s an intriguing thesis. James Carroll, a former priest uses it to point a finger at the modern church, begging them to introspect and ask themselves if they have don enough to undo the harm they caused.
Following in the footsteps of the story of Rav Yehoshua ben Prachya, I’d like to use this story not to point fingers outward, but inward, and use this story for introspection.
For virtually the entire history of Christianity, Christians were the ones in power and Jews were powerless. The church abused that power to amass wealth and to gain political support. But now, for the first time since Jesus was born, we, the Jewish People have power. We, the Jewish People have a country and an army and the ability to wield that power over others. And now we need to look in the mirror and ask ourselves if we are using this power appropriately.
Let’s be abundantly clear, does the State of Israel need to do everything in its power to defend her people? Yes. Has the State of Israel gone above and beyond in limiting the deaths of Arabs in all its wars, including in the current war against Gaza? Without a doubt. When a nation wages war, there are consequences and people in that nation, even if they are entirely innocent, will die. And the only one to blame, in this case, is Hamas. Have peace deals, the exit of Gush Katif in any way shape or form worked? Have the PA or Hamas been partners in peace? No. Not even close. Full stop.
But there is a growing trend of racism in some of our circles. Jews who deny the notion of tzelem Elokim, of the intrinsic value of every human being, and comfortably describe Arabs as subhuman. There are Jews who argue that we are allowed to take justice into our own hands by firebombing mosques, by terrorizing Arab children, and much worse. None of that is acceptable.
This is not an indictment on any current or past political figure in Israel. It really isn’t. They don’t matter. (See Noam Weissman for a great analysis of modern Kahanism: https://unpacked.media/meir-kahane-jewish-defender-or-jewish-supremacist/.) We’re not talking to them. As the Talmud teaches us through the story of Rav Yehoshu ben Prachya, the only thing that matters is us; what we do and what we think. How do we, Jews who are finally in a position of power, think about that power?
Are Arabs ‘animals’ that must be treated as such by vigilantes, or alternatively, are we in a war, and must do whatever is necessary to protect the Jewish People and fight our enemies through the State of Israel’s military apparatus? Those are not the same.
Are all Arabs ‘bloodthirsty’ and undeserving of peace, or alternatively, must we be exceptionally skeptical of any peace agreements, and yes, entertain idea that may even be politically incorrect to ensure the safety of the Jewish People? Those are not the same.
There is a big difference between those two sides. One is about denigrating other human beings and the other is about personal safety – the ethical imperative to ensure one’s own safety and the safety of one’s family.
We now have the sword and we now have authority. And that is a terrible and complicated responsibility.
Which brings me back to Pope Francis.
I’ll be honest, I was initially very excited when he was elected as pope. I was enamored by the images of him riding that dinky little car instead of a royal entourage. I was moved by the pictures of him caring for the most needy and broken. He exemplified one of the characteristics that the original priests, the Kohanim, were meant to characterize. In our parsha we read how the Metzora, the leper, who is banished from the camp, is visited by the Kohein. The Kohein is there not only for technical reasons, but to give chizzuk, to give support, to give guidance and love to the individual who is an outcast. In this respect, Pope Francis was a model of what a spiritual leader should look like.
But there is another role for the Kohein; he is also the spiritual guide, a person of authority. This week’s parsha goes into overwhelming detail as to how the Kohein assesses whether or not the leprosy is indeed Tzoraas. He visits the Metzora once and then again and then a third time. Each time, he measures, he analyzes, and he weighs. To be a spiritual leader one must be able to be mavdil bein kodesh l’chol, bein hatamei uvein hatahor. Crystal clear guidance is needed.
And in this respect, Pope Francis fell woefully short. He spoke positively about gay unions but outlawed gay marriage. In doing so, he confused his followers and caused confusion to the entire religious world. He spoke out against sexual abuse in the church, and appointed a friend, Victor Manuel Fernandez, as prefect despite his well-known history of sexual abuse. In doing so, he gave false hope and sewed frustration in the hearts of the most vulnerable. And, as he did in his final address, he spoke out against antisemitism – he was undoubtedly opposed to those who discriminated against Jews, and in that same speech, vilified the Jewish state, and in doing so, paved the way for even more antisemitism.
A spiritual guide is an authority, his or her role is to provide clarity. One of the greatest gifts that our Torah presents to us is the knowledge that this is moral and this is not, from the moment of conception until we take our last breath, the Torah clearly defines what we should do and should not do, what is right and what is wrong. Religion is meant to provide clarity in a relativistic confusing world, l’havdil bein kodesh l’chol, bein hatamei uvein hatahor.
Will the church learn the lessons of history and elect a pontiff who will once and for all undo the harm caused by two thousand years of the Christian sword? Will they put into power someone who can provide moral clarity in a world of confusion? I really hope so. But even more importantly, will we?
by Ner Tamid | Apr 27, 2025 | Sermons
The other day, Miri, my four-year-old, got on the phone with my mother, her grandmother. “How is Israel?” my mother asked.
“Great!” my daughter replied.
My mother followed up with the classic question, “What was your favorite part?”
I started listening. Would she say it was kissing the kotel? Seeing so many Jews at Birkas Kohanim? Spending so much time with her immediate and extended family?
“The ice cream.”
That’s what she said. “My favorite part of Israel was the ice cream.”
Now there happens to be a really great chain of Israeli ice cream stores called Katzefet, and the ice cream is great. But I was a little disappointed. I packed seven huge pieces of luggage, spent all this time, money, effort, and energy, for my daughter to come home and say she enjoyed Israeli ice cream. Meh.
Kids are a lot more insightful than we give them credit for. I think Mirir was actually onto something when she described the best part of our trip to Israel was the ice cream.
I’ve been to Israel quite a few times over the past few years; each time for either on a mission or to attend a conference. At conferences, I would inevitably meet high-ranking politicians, great rabbis, Jewish leaders. Whether it was in the lectures they delivered, or the conversations I had with them in in the hallways, I would typically walk away from such encounters more educated and inspired and feeling pretty elevated after meeting such special people.
On these missions, we’d typically visit unique places, places like the Nova site, and those tours would be led by people who survived. Moving. Chilling. Inspiring.
Sometimes they’d take you to places that no one else has access to. Thrilling.
Maybe we’d go to some special prayer gathering led by someone with a soul-stirring voice. Transformative.
The trip I just went on with my family from the beginning to the end was the exact opposite. We stayed in Katamon, a predominantly Israeli and Hebrew-speaking community. As a tourist I stood out.
We shopped in the Israeli supermarkets. Which by the way are insane. It’s like someone took all the products in Costco, threw them in the air, and let them land wherever. “Where’s the oil?”
“Ehhhm. The oil is next to the garbage bags.”
Interesting.
We didn’t daven in any fancy, uplifting, unique shuls. We davened in what is known as the Katmon shtiblich. The shtiblich are like Rabbi Eichenstein’s shul. It has better traffic control outside, but inside it is far more chaotic. There is no set nusach in that shul. Whomever gets up to be the chazzan can lead in whichever nusach he wants. It’s like a game. We finish shemoneh esrei and there’s a short pause. Everyone’s guessing, what’s he going to do next? Sefardi one day, Asheknaz the next. Teimani. Hodge-potch of both. I was waiting for some Christian Missionary to get up one day and start leading davening. It was a mess. And was also genuinely Israeli. No games, no performances. Everyone from all walks of Jewish life crowded into a small space with no air conditioning.
There is a book that someone wrote about what he learned from Israeli taxi drivers. These guys, often times with no kippah on their head, spout forth so much Emunah, so much faith, it’s incredible. On our trip, we barely used taxis.
When we arrived, I somehow persuaded my family not to take a taxi. We did what every Israeli does and took the bullet train from the airport to Jerusalem. I made everyone in my family lug this huge piece of luggage with them, even Miri. We got off the train and then we took a bus to where we were staying. Now here they made a mistake by listening to me because I have no sense of direction and I took them – after a stopover flight with seven huge pieces of luggage, after a train ride, on the right bus, going in the wrong direction. We eventually got there. Very sweaty and a little smelly. Again, very Israeli.
We did use one or two taxis when we had to, but there were no inspiring stories, The last taxi I took, the driver – an Arab – told me how has three wives and laughed at me that I only had one. I’m still not sure if he was being honest, just messing with me, or was undercover Mossad agent.
The most famous person I saw on this trip was Natan Sharansky. I walked by him taking a stroll with his wife Avital on Yom Tov. I wished them a Chag Sameiach. They looked at me, shrugged, and walked on.
Again, classic Israeli experience.
So yes, when my little daughter said that “ice cream” was her favorite part of the trip that was a good summary. It was as quiet and normal as can be. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that normal was the best possible Israel experience I could have given my children.
You see, this Thursday is Yom Ha’atzmaut. We will be saying Hallel in our shul as we always do. There will be celebrations next door at Shomrei which we will participate in. And on Yom Ha’atzmaut we get excited about the gift of Israel, how in just over 75 years, a strip of desert-land has bloomed, how a ragtag group of intellectuals and survivors created one of the most sophisticated armies, how kibbutznkim created a tech hub, and how Torah has exploded in our holy land. It’s hard to understand how people do not celebrate the gift of modern Israel.
But in doing so, in focusing on all these near-miraculous developments, we run the risk of ignoring the ice cream. By placing so much emphasis on Israel, the spectacular, we run the risk of losing sight of Israel, the normal.
Do we say a bracha for Hallel on Yom Ha’atzmaut? Do we not say a bracha for Hallel on Yom Ha’atzmaut? Great question. But that overshadows a bracha you will all be saying in an hour or so, a bracha many say daily. In the second paragraph of Birkas Hamazon, Baruch Ata Hashem al ha’aretz v’al hamazon. Thank you, Hashem, for the food and for the land.
That bracha was not composed 75 years ago, it was said by our ancestors in Babylon and Rome as Israel was a burning heap of rubble. The bracha was said by our ancestors in Europe as the Crusaders and Muslims soaked Israel’s soil in blood. The bracha was said when the land was described by Mark Twain as “a desolation… that not even imagination can grace with the pomp of life and action.”
Yes, we need to thank Hashem for the gift and the grandeur of modern Israel. But we also need to thank Hashem “al ha’aretz,” for the land, for having been given a place to call home, whether we were allowed to live in that home or not. G-d gave us a gift that our ancestors knew to appreciate even as it was barren and even as they lived thousands of miles away. And not just any land. Its stones, its dirt-baked streets, are all saturated with holiness. G-d gave us a shared space where He promised to one day meet up with us again.
When we only focus on the overt and extraordinary holiness – the people and places we’re exposed to on missions, then we lose sight of the fact that this land is holy and is ours and is special. Just because. Baruch ata Hashem al ha’aretz. Thank you for the gift of the land of Israel, Israel, the normal.
One of the most important institutions of Israel, the spectacular, is a Yeshiva called Har Etzion or “The Gush.” The story of the yeshiva goes back to 1943 when Kfar Etzion, an area 2 kilometers from Jerusalem was established. In 1948, one day before the declaration of Independence, after a grueling battle with the Jordanians, the people of Kfar Etzion surrendered. Despite their surrender, the Jordanians, with the help of local Arabs massacred over 150 Jews, including women and children. They burned the Kibbutz to the ground. The bodies of those massacred were left to rot until a yar later when Israelis were given permission to bury them. Yom Hazikaron, Israel’s memorial day, was established on the day before Israel’s Independence Day because of this horrific incident.
In 1967, the land returned to Jewish rule. A group of Jews immediately settled the land and a very short while later a Yeshiva opened, Yeshivat Har Etzion. This yeshiva attracts some of the brightest students in the world, and the vast majority of the students serve in the IDF. The yeshiva is a symbol for all that is spectacular about Israel.
With that in mind, let me share with you an observation made by its founding Rosh Yeshiva, Rav Yehuda Amital. Rav Amital points out that one of the most famous descriptions of the Messianic Era is that of Zechariah, the prophet. He does not describe Israel’s military power, or their spiritual greatness. Rather, “Od yeshvu z’keinim uz’keinos birchovos Yerushalayim.” Then, in that future time, old men and women will sit in the streets of Jerusalem. “וּרְחֹב֤וֹת הָעִיר֙ יִמָּ֣לְא֔וּ יְלָדִ֖ים וִֽילָד֑וֹת מְשַׂחֲקִ֖ים בִּרְחֹֽבֹתֶֽיהָ” And the streets will be filled with boys and girls playing in their streets. Playing, I imagine, and also eating ice cream.
Rav Amital, living on land sanctified by the blood of innocents, land that was redeemed by the strength of heroes, teaching in a yeshiva that was pumping out the leaders of Israel, he understood that the real gift of Israel is eternal, and its greatness is found in its simplest form.
Thank you, Hashem, for the gift of Israel, the spectacular. Thank you, Hashem, for the gift of Israel, the normal.
by Ner Tamid | Mar 30, 2025 | Sermons
This past Thursday night, a rabbi friend of mine texted me, “Watcha got?”
This is what rabbis do when they need an inspiring story, a new angle, or just to get those drasha-juices flowing.
I replied that I am thinking of talking about YU. I was referring to the news that this past week, how Yeshiva University came to an agreement with a group of students who wanted to open an LGBT club in the college. This controversy has been raging on for years in and out of court. There are legal issues at play as the college is officially a public institution, and of course, there are matters of Halacha and Hashkafah that have to be addressed.
My friend surprised me by saying that he was also thinking about talking about YU. “Really?’ I wrote back. My friend’s not the controversial type. He said, “Yes. But it has nothing to do with the club. My message is that no one should ever go to Yeshiva University, club or no club.”
The particular controversy around this club in YU is a very important one, one that I would like to revisit at a later time. Sorry, not today. Today, I’d like to reply my colleague and good friend, who will not be named, who, like many people before him, have suggested that Yeshiva University is intrinsically flawed, that one cannot have an institution that is both a yeshiva and a college, that the merging of the holy and the mundane is a grave mistake.
For starters, let me get this out of the way, I did not go to YU. I went to Ner Yisroel so I have no skin in this game. (Once we’re on the topic of where I did not go, I also did not go to any Chabad yeshivas despite my little beard and my tzitzis hanging out. I get that question a lot. Now that we got that out of the way…)
Yeshiva University was established in 1886. But the controversy around secular studies goes back almost 1000 years. It came to a head in the times of the Rambam, Maimonides, who famously incorporated Aristotelian thought into his worldview. Perhaps more accurately, Aristotelian though guided his worldview. One of the Rambam’s most famous works was Moreh Nevuchim in which he addressed every possible critique against the Torah, using what some would describe as secular logic.
In his lifetime, most people disagreed quietly, but after he died, the controversy exploded. His opponents were concerned that his openness to secular knowledge would suck people into a world that rejected G-d and the Torah. Ultimately, some of his opponents turned to the local authorities telling them that the Rambam’s book, Moreh Nevuchim, was a threat to all religions which led to one of the most tragic moments in Jewish history. In 1232, encouraged by enemies of the Rambam, a group of Dominican monks went through France, confiscated all the copies of Moreh Nevuchim they could get their hands on, and burned them in a public square.
In 1305, the Rashba, the leading Torah scholars of that time, tried to make a compromise between the opponents of learning secular studies and those who embraced it. He suggested that one can learn secular philosophy but only after the age of 25. His attempt at compromise went nowhere. Each side dug in even deeper.
On one side you had those who believed that a deeper knowledge of philosophy, of science, of history, broadens us. By extension, this group of Torah leaders believed that we should embrace and grapple with the world around us. On the other side, there were those who believed that any engagement in the world around us posed too many risks. They believed that worldviews that do not align to the Torah will draw us away from G-d and will distort our understanding of the Torah. The Vilna Gaon, after disagreeing with a ruling of the Rambam, famously quipped: “The Rambam’s engagement in philosophy caused him to err.” (Yoreh Deah, 179:6:3)
***
On Thursday night, I had the great joy of seeing one of my Rebbeim from Kerem B’Yavneh, Rav Mendel Blachman who was visiting Baltimore. He is a towering individual who I credit in so many ways for anything I have learned and accomplished in my life. One specific story is worth sharing in this context:
One Shabbos, our yeshiva, Kerem B’Yavneh, was visited by Rav Hershel Schachter, Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshiva University. After Friday night dinner there was a Q and A session. One of my good friends, a bright guy with zero tact, got up to ask a question. “Rav Schachter, does it bother you that virtually all the Gedolim, all the great Torah scholars of the day, disagree with your worldview?” Among other things, my friend was referring to Rav Schachter leading Yeshiva University, a place where secular studies are explored side by side with Torah study, he was referring to Rav Schachter’s unabashed Zionism. These are positions that many of the great Torah leaders of our time disagree with. Rav Schachter being the humble person that he is, did not answer the question.
Sunday morning, my rebbi, Rav Blachman, came into our class. He opened the Gemara we were learning and then he closed it. Instead of delivering his regular Talmud class, he spent the next hour railing on those who believe there is only one hashkafah, one approach to understanding how a Torah Jew, is supposed to live their life. That is not the Jewish way. There has always been divergent views within Torah Judaism. And yes, there have been views beyond the pale; the Sadducees, the Karites , the Sabbateans, other denominations of Judaism and others. But within Torah Judaism, within a worldview that subscribes to absolute fidelity to the Torah and to the Sages, there has always been more than one way.
There are exceptions, there are Mitzvos that our Sages decided cannot have divergent views. Mitzvos like Kiddush Hachodesh, the sanctification of the new moon, the Jewish calendar. Imagine a world in which there were two views on what day Pesach starts, that would be a disaster. Such a debate would rip us apart as a people and that’s something we cannot allow. The Gemara shares a story in which Rabban Gamliel forced his colleague Rav Yehoshua to travel on the day Rav Yehoshua thought it was supposed to be Yom Kippur based on his interpretation because two calendars would upend Jewish unity. But this story is the exception! For the most part, honest, Torah-driven debate, was the rule. And that’s more than okay. It’s necessary. G-d created us with different temperaments, with different proclivities. Inasmuch as we have different tastes, there are different flavors to Judaism.
Rav Blachman concluded, not only was the question rude, it was wrong. Find yourself a Gadol, find yourself a great Torah scholar (not some guy with the title rabbi before his name who writes well on social media). Find someone who is immersed in Torah, and if his Torah worldview speaks to you, if it resonates with you, follow him. And stop looking over your shoulder, stop worrying about the fact that this or that great Torah scholar disagrees. Find your Torah leader and follow your own path.
Centrist Orthodoxy or Modern Orthodoxy or whatever you want to call it has a complex. Those who subscribe to it are constantly looking over their shoulder, and that’s ridiculous.
Is Rav Yosef Soloveitchik not worthy of following? Is Rav Avraham Yitzchak Kook not worthy of following?
In a world in which there are great rabbis telling people not to support the IDF and there are other great rabbis arguing that IDF soldiers are the holiest people on the planet, I don’t know about you, but that second group is far more compelling to me.
In a world in which all of us, whether you live in Teaneck or in Lakewood, is engaged in the secular world around us, and there are great rabbis pretending the world around us does not exist and there are great rabbis grappling with how to engage, what to keep and what to throw away, I don’t know about you, but that second group is far more compelling.
So no, Yeshiva University is not a bad place. If you are deciding between a college in which there is no Torah learning and a yeshiva college in which there is; if you are deciding between a college where the rate of attrition is sky-high, where a significant percentage of Jewish boys and girls are not remaining committed to their upbringing, which is virtually every secular college, and Yeshiva University, where yes, there may be a club that we will one day discuss, but for the most part, the students are able to live fully immersed Torah lives, the decision is clear. Yeshiva University is a gift.
Yes, our community needs to strengthen itself in its Torah observance. Yes, our community needs to elevate the way we pray, and it needs to step up the level of Torah learning. But do not be embarrassed. Do not be afraid. To walk in the footsteps of the Rambam, of the Ramchal, of Rav Kook, of Rav Soloveitchik, admas kodesh hu, we are on holy ground.
***
We just said the words, Chazak, Chazak, V’nis’chazeik, as we completed the book of Shemos. The Sefer Hamanhig points out that those words, “Chazak, be strong!” were first said to Yehoshua. This is not a coincidence. As opposed to his teacher, Moshe, who led the Jewish People in the desert, sequestered away from the distractions of the world, Yehoshua led the Jewish People in battle, he led the Jewish People into a life of commerce, into a life of worldly engagement, a life that we, our community, believes in. It takes strength to live a life of worldly engagement. So let’s be strong. Chazak, Chazak, V’nis’chazeik.
(Inspired by https://www.ou.org/sacred-and-profane-conflicts/)
by Ner Tamid | Mar 18, 2025 | Sermons
Have you started planning for Pesach yet? Are you cleaning? Cooking? Making a menu? Pulling your hair out?
If we were living in ancient Egypt at the time of Yetzias Mitzrayim, the Exodus, we would be chilling right now. Really. We weren’t working for the Egyptians – they had given up on us a few months prior. We did not yet know if and when we were leaving. I honestly don’t know what they were doing. Maybe they were getting camel rides or tours of the pyramids.
We read this morning (from the second Torah) that the Jewish People were introduced to the holiday of Pesach only fourteen days before it took place. That means that Pesach preparation would not start until this upcoming Thursday, Rosh Chodesh Nissan. You probably think that those two weeks were crazy; frenetic activity, getting ready for the very first Pesach seder, and even more so, getting ready to leave Egypt. But I don’t think it was as busy as you imagine.
Were the Jewish People spending their time cleaning their homes from chameitz?
No. The average size of an Egyptian home in 2000 BCE was about the size of a two-car garage. They were far more economical with their food. Hardly anything went to waste. How long would it take you to clean an already fairly clean two-car garage? An hour? Maybe.
Were they cooking?
No. They were only eating one meal at home and the main course, the lamb, was prepared on the eve of Pesach.
Were they packing?
Not really. Most Egyptians in that era, even wealthy ones, had almost no furniture. Poor Egyptians did not use dishes. Eating utensils did not exist. (That’s what we have fingers for.) They typically had a mortar, a pestle, a pot, a pan, and a bowl for storing things.
In terms of clothing, kids under six, did not wear any clothing… The adults had one pair of clothing – which they were wearing. So, when the Jewish People left Egypt there were no U-hauls. It probably took them fifteen minutes to pack.
For those keeping track, we are up to hour and fifteen minutes of prep time.
Perhaps they were borrowing objects from their neighbors, as they were instructed to do. Let’s give them a day to do that.
The men were getting circumcised. I assume they needed a few days to recover.
So, if we were being generous with their time, they needed at most a week to prepare for Pesach. And if that’s so, if my math and history are correct, the Jewish People really had oodles of time at their disposal, so why did G-d inform them about Pesach two weeks before it started? What were the Jewish People supposed to be doing during that time? Was He trying to just get us anxious?! What was that time for?
Clearly, no one was listening to the Torah reading today. Because the answer is right there. G-d says, “Hachodesh hazeh lachem, this month is the first month of the Jewish year.” And then, “On the tenth of the month, you should go a get a lamb to slaughter.” It’s quite clear that the reason G-d tells the Jewish People about Pesach fourteen days before it happens is for one reason and one reason only – to give them a heads up about the Pascal Lamb.
Now of course, this doesn’t fully answer our question. If they were not going to take the lamb until the tenth of the month, and not going to roast the lamb until the 14th of the month, why do they need to know about this Mitzvah two weeks in advance?
So, if you were listening to the Torah reading… you would know that there is a law about the Korban Pesach – lo sosiru mimenu ad boker, there were to be no leftovers. The entire lamb had to be eaten on the night of Pesach.
How many people could a lamb feed?
According to our good friends at bigroast.com, a regular sized lamb can feed… 45 people!
So, if you needed to make sure that there were no leftovers, and assuming your family size was let’s just say, 8 people, you needed to invite guests. A lot of guests.
I believe the extra week was given to the Jewish People for this reason alone; to invite guests for Pesach.
Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch suggests that this is precisely why we were instructed to make sure there were no leftovers; to ensure that the Pesach Seder would not be experienced alone. The true sign of freedom is a person or a family who are not simply focused on their own survival and wellbeing. The true sign of freedom is a person or a family who care about others.
This is why we begin the Seder with an invitation to guests. How do we begin the section of Maggid? “Ha lachma anya, this is the bread of affliction, kol dichfin, yeisi v’yechol, whoever is hungry, come and eat.”
It’s a bizarre passage. Who exactly are we inviting when we say those words? Our friends and family are already at the table with us when it’s said.
The Avudraham, a 14th century Spanish Torah scholar, relates that it was a genuine invitation. In his time, people would actually open their doors at the beginning of the seder and call out those words – “If you’re hungry, come and join me.” People in need would be waiting in the streets for these invitations. This practice was a perpetuation of the very first Pesach seder, in which no one ate alone, every person was accounted for. Though we no longer do this, by saying those words at the beginning of the seder, we remind ourselves of this beautiful custom. It’s so central to the night, that it is the opening passage in the section of Maggid. It’s to remind us that sharing, caring, ensuring that we are not just focused on ourselves is the primary feature of a free and dignified person.
The most shocking and devastating section in the book, Night, by Elie Wiesel, describes a German throwing a scrap of bread to a group of starving Jews. Wiesel relates how the Jews, who haven’t eaten for days start fighting viciously over the tiny piece of food. One man is victorious; he proudly holds up the crust of bread after wrestling it away from everyone else. And then he’s pounced upon by another starving man, who beats him, and ultimately beats him to death. Wiesel drily comments that it was a son who killed his own father for a piece of bread.
That’s what starvation does to a person. It turns them into an animal. That’s what a slavery does to a person. They become entirely focused on survival and self-preservation.
And so, on the weeks leading up to Pesach, the Jewish People were told, you are no longer slaves; you are free. You are no longer focused only on survival; you are dignified. You are no longer subject to the rules of our base inclinations; you are a master of your own destiny. You are no longer a taker; you are a giver.
For two weeks the Jewish People went around, checking in on their neighbors, especially those who didn’t have a family of their own, or those who didn’t have an intact family, or those who had less than the other Jews, and invited them to the Pesach seder.
Maybe they were turned down. But I hope that didn’t dissuade them. Perhaps they offered to walk near them as they travelled into the frightening desert to provide some moral support. Perhaps they made a mental note to check in with them at some later time in the year knowing that it wasn’t only Pesach that these people struggled. Perhaps they invited them to a different meal at a different time or take them out for the Egyptian equivalent of a coffee. There are many ways to make sure that those who are lonely feel a little less alone.
I imagine that stuffing 45 people into a home the size of a two-car garage was not so comfortable. Maybe some of the guests made them a little uncomfortable. But freedom is not always comfortable. Doing the right thing is not always comfortable.
We have two weeks and five days to prepare for Pesach – that’s five more days than our ancestors. Cleaning our homes from chameitz is important. Having a delicious Pesach menu is great. But real freedom, the freedom that our ancestors tasted in the days leading up to Pesach, is the freedom to share. Not everyone can have 45 people at their seder. But every single one of us can and must make sure that no one, no one at all, is left feeling alone.
by Ner Tamid | Mar 9, 2025 | Sermons
As many of you know I spent the past week in Israel participating in Voice of the People, an initiative by President Herzog to tackle the biggest issues facing the Jewish People. My team was tasked with combatting antisemitism. At one point in our discussions I shared that it would be ridiculous to conceptualize antisemitism only through a modern lens. We have been grappling and overcoming antisemitism since before we were a nation, and it would be critical to spend some time thinking about how our tradition dealt with this ancient hate.
The most basic text, of course, is what we read this morning, a section known as Parshas Zachor. It is the story of an evil nation that attacked us for no reason. We read how we are commanded to remember to fight them in every generation.
However, already in the times of the Talmud, this Mitzvah was reinterpreted to be understood metaphorically. The battle against Amaleik was seen not as an evil antisemitic nation bent on our destruction but as an idea; to fight the evil within ourselves, or to overcome doubt, or to live a life of religious fervor, and numerous other interpretations.
This shift to metaphor is easy to understand. For starters, we had no power; no army, no strength, and no voice to fight back against those who tried to kill us. But it wasn’t just a practical reason we shifted to metaphor, it was philosophical. Our prophets, most specifically Isaiah, taught us a concept called peace. As historian Paul Johnson noted, the Jewish People introduced to the world the notion that peace is not a last resort, but rather, the highest ideal, and that it should be pursued from a place of strength.
And so, whenever we could, we tried seeing the possibility of peace in everyone around us. Whether it was King Shaul who chose to let some of the Amaleikim live, whether it was Western Jews who felt uncomfortable with the notion of an evil nation that needed to be destroyed – something that sounded awfully genocidal, whether it was my great-grandparents hoping that Hitler was exaggerating, or whether it was the Israeli government who allowed themselves to believe that Hamas was not interested in our destruction. Amaleik, in this naïve mindset, came to symbolize a spiritual fight for perhaps more Torah or greater unity, but as best as possible, we shifted away from thinking of Amaleik as a real enemy that needed to be destroyed.
Things are starting to change. We’ve started to shift away from metaphor. In Israel, even the most left-leaning (mainstream) politicians have given up, for now, on a two-state solution; they will not tolerate a Hamas-led government in the east and no longer have any faith in those in charge to our west. When we’ve witnessed how a nation is willing to give up their relative comfort for the sake of destroying our people, when we’ve witnessed a nation that does not fight against soldiers, but fights against infants, then the Purim mask is removed and Amaleik is no longer seen as a metaphor.
And yet, some habits die hard. In some ways, even the State of Israel is still living in metaphor la-la land. One of the people we had an opportunity to speak with this past week was Michal Cotler-Wunsh, Israel’s Special Envoy to combat antisemitism. She lamented the fact that the State of Israel has invested almost nothing to combat international antisemitism. While they are sinking billions of dollars to fight enemies in the region, they have barely spent a penny fighting global antisemitism. She asked the government to dedicate the equivalent of one fighter jet to fighting antisemitism and they laughed at her. In doing so, they are ignoring the dangers of the college students and professors, the Hollywood actors and journalists, the podcasters and influencers, who are bashing Israel at every turn. To ignore them by dismissing their rhetoric as just words, is just as naïve as dismissing the buildup of Hamas over the past decade.
As we know from our tradition, words lead to actions. “Vayo’rei’u osanu haMitzrim,” a line from the Haggadah, is loosely translated as they did evil to us. But Rav Soloveitchik observes that a more accurate translation is that they made us out to be evil. Once you demonize, once you paint the Jewish People as being worthy of destruction, then the jump to concentration camps and death camps, to mass rape and kidnapping children, is quite small. As Michal put it: “We are inching closer and closer to a time in which if Iran were to annihilate the Jewish People, the international community would say, todah, thank you.”
I am by nature a peace-loving person who naturally sees good in others, and it’s to people like me that the Torah demands of us to stop allowing evil to hide behind metaphors. But rather, to see the evil around us and acknowledge it for what it is. Those who do not believe Israel should exist are not just misguided, it is not just a different opinion, the antisemitism we are seeing around us is evil and it is lethal. Milchama laShem ba’Amaleik midor dor. There is “a war against Amaleik in every generation.”
I am not suggesting we kill those who deserve to be called Amaleik. I am suggesting we stop dancing around the word evil. The commandment to read Parshas Zachor reminds us that it exists. No metaphors needed.
***
Now I know this may sound shocking but my group and I did not “solve” antisemitism in the few days we spent together. (The purpose of the week was to bond, to scratch the surface of the topic in person, and then we will be meeting regularly online over the next two years to try and tackle at least one facet of antisemitism.) But despite us not solving anything, I did learn something from all of them, which in its own way is the first step to combatting antisemitism, a lesson that takes us back to the very first battle against our eternal enemy.
The Torah tells us that in our fight against Amaleik, Moshe stood atop a mountain and lifted his hands up high. In no other Biblical war, do we find this strange action. It was clearly critical because the Torah elaborates and tells us that when he got tired, he did not stop. No matter what, he held his hands up high.
There are many metaphorical explanations, but we do not need any metaphors. The message is so abundantly clear. Yes, we fought, yes, we prayed, but Moshe needed to teach the Jewish People an eternal answer for times when we cannot and should not kill, for times when we may not have the ability to pray. Amaleik attacked those who were weak. Hanecheshalim b’cha. So Moshe, the 80-year-old leader of the Jewish People lifted his hands for all to see to convey one simple and powerful message – we are not weak. We are proud. That’s how we fight antisemitism. That’s how we win.
I had a conversation at the conference with a woman who described her experiences in high school. She was the only Jew in a school made up of mostly Muslims and they harassed her. Day in and day out, high school for this young woman, was miserable. She lamented the fact that there was no educational program to help teach the students about antisemitism, she was upset that there was no system that punished those who bullied her. It was terribly sad listening to her story.
Speaking to her reminded me of a time that I got bullied in elementary school. As you may have noticed I am not so tall. There was this one boy in my 3rd grade class who made it his business to constantly remind me of how short I was. As you can imagine, I was devastated. I was too embarrassed to tell my parents but my mother noticed that something was wrong and so I told her. Nowadays if a child is being bullied, the parent calls the school, and the school is expected to intervene. Thankfully for me, this was not the case in the early 90’s, and instead I learned one of the most important lessons of my life.
My mother asked me if the bully was right; should I be embarrassed that I am short? Is there something wrong with me that I am short? Of course, the answer was no. Who made you short, my mother asked me. “G-d?” I sheepishly said. My mother nodded. “Yes, exactly, and G-d thinks it’s just fine that you are that size. So next time this guy calls you short, you tell him to complain to the One who made you that way.”
Now you have to understand, in my very yeshivish elementary school this was the ultimate comeback. And so it was. The next time he called me short, I replied, “Go tell that to the One who made me that way.” (Mike drop)
I was never bullied again.
You see, bullying, like antisemitism, is a power dynamic. The bullies put others down to lift themselves up; now they’re in control. But the second the one who is bullied is confident in who they are, the second the one who is bullied is not fazed by any criticism because they know the truth, the power dynamic of the bully and bullied is shattered.
That’s what I meant when I said that my team has already accomplished a lot in the fight against antisemitism, against Amaleik. Whether it’s the student in Harvard who doesn’t shy away from his Israeli identity. Whether it’s the gay CEO who lost his allies but is the proudest of Jews. Whether it’s the woman in middle of no-Jew Florida who is organizing trips of students to learn more about their heritage. Or whether it’s the liberal West Coaster who decided to start wearing a Magen Dovid necklace even though his support of Israel has lost him so many of his friends.
Moshe held his hands up high. We need to do the same. To not be apologetic, but to be proud of our heritage. To not be so enamored by the Western world, but to be deeply, deeply, deeply knowledgeable of the Torah. To not be scared, but to hold our Jewish heads high.
***
I arrived in Newark airport Friday morning. I usually find a quiet corner to put on my talis and tefillin; I daven, when in public, without shuckling, to not draw even more attention to myself. But not yesterday. I davened in a public space, swaying like I sway at Ner Tamid, davening with my head held high. Because we are so done with metaphors.
