by Ner Tamid | Jun 1, 2025 | Sermons
Back when I was newly married, I used to get my wife flowers every Friday. I’d get a ride with a friend from Ner Israel to what was then called Shopper’s and we’d both go and buy flowers for our spouses. He would walk in and do what I call, the no-look-flower-grab. As he’d be walking to the milk section, he would just stick his hand out and without breaking his stride, pick up whichever bouquet came up in his hand. Voila, he is done. He has just picked out flowers for his wife.
For me, on the other hand, it was not so simple. First, I had to make sure that the flowers were not dying. Then I would search for a bouquet with a nice array of colors. That narrows it down but then I had to figure out what color is appropriate. Is this week a red rose week or a white rose week? Should I be getting something springy to go with the weather? But it’s rainy this weekend, what’s the right color for a rainy weekend in the summer? And then if you’re a real pro, which I was, I had to remember which dishes were being served over Shabbos so that the flowers could be color coordinated, not only with the napkins but with the squash kugel. Needless to say, I’d spend at least twenty minutes choosing flowers for my wife.
Eventually, Hindy told me to stop buying her flowers. Both because we had no money, and because my friend kept on leaving me at Shopper’s because I took so long and this whole thing was a colossal waste of time.
I make one exception and that is Shavuos. For Shavuos, I go to Trader Joe’s, I elbow my way to the flower section through tens of Jewish women all doing the same. I typically pick out a bouquet, stand in line to pay, and then go running back to switch bouquets at least once, usually twice, and finally come home with a beautiful bouquet, only to find out that my wife made flowers with the Sisterhood on Thursday night…
Where does this minhag come from? Why do people buy flowers especially for Shavuos? And why do many shuls decorate the shul with flowers specifically on this Yom Tov?
As we’ll see, this may be the one holiday, I should not be buying flowers for, as there are those who argue that flowers on Shavuos is not only not a good custom but it is forbidden. So let’s jump in. (Sources from a wonderful shiur by Rabbi Dovid Gottlieb on YUTorah)
The earliest source that discusses this minhag is someone known as the Maharil, Rav Yaakov Moelin, a 15th century highly influential German scholar. He writes that there is a custom to put fragrant greenery, asavim, on the floors of the shul on Shavuos.
The most famous explanation is that Har Sinai was covered in grass and flowers. But how do we know this? There’s a beautiful depiction of Har Sinai that you can see in the new lobby – thank you to the Chernikoff family! – you’ll notice that the mountain is brown. Which makes sense as the Sinai desert is a… desert. Where does the idea that the mountain was covered in grass and flowers come from?
Rav Mordechai Yoffee, a 16th century scholar known as the Levush, directs us to a prohibition found in relation to the giving of the Torah. When the Jewish People arrived at the Sinai desert, G-d gave them a number of laws to prepare for the giving of the Torah. One of them was that it is forbidden for sheep to graze on the mountain. Sheep do not graze on sand. It must be, says the Levush, that the pictures my 5-year-old came home from school with, are correct, the mountain must have miraculously become covered with grass. There are other explanations, but this one is by far the most famous one.
But here’s where things get interesting. In the 17th century, a scholar known by his book, the Magen Avraham, records this minhag, but he does not talk about grass, he mentions trees. “It is the custom to place trees in one’s home and shul on Shavuos.” Now he wasn’t making this custom up, he was reporting on a widely-practiced custom.
Why trees? He explains that there is a Mishna in Rosh Hashana that tells us that although humans are judged on Rosh Hashana, trees are judged on… Shavuos. Says the Magen Avraham, we place trees in shuls to remind us to pray for a good crop.
Comes along the Vilna Gaon, probably the most influential rabbi to have lived in the last 600 years, and says, absolutely not. He acknowledges that is a real minhag, not a shminhag. But he makes it his business to ban this minhag. Why?
Though it’s not written so clearly, and that is because of Christian censorship, he (his students) writes that it is Biblically forbidden to maintain this minhag because, you know where this is going, because… There is a Christian custom of placing trees in their places of worship on their holiday and it is forbidden to have the same custom.
Which holiday?
Wrong.
Don’t tell my children, but let’s learn a little Christianity. There is a holiday that today is only celebrated by the Greek Orthodox Church called Pentecost. You’re not going to believe this but 49 days after Easter, sounds familiar yet – is when it takes place. It is the holiday that the Greek Orthodox Church believes that G-d came down to earth… It gets better. The first night of the celebration is observed by a vigil that takes place all night!
The Vilna Gaon, writing in the late 18th century, says, it does not matter if our custom came before theirs, the bottom line is it looks like we’re imitating them and it has to stop. There is some debate if he was only against trees or if he was opposed to all forms of greenery on this holiday (opinion of the Aruch Hashulchan). One way or another, nobody puts trees up in their shul on Shavuos; many have the minhag of placing flowers in shul and at home, and some say doing so is absolutely forbidden.
***
Those are the two classical reasons as to why we have flowers on Shavuos; to recall the miracle of the grassy Har Sinai or to remind us to pray for trees. Virtually no one puts up a tree, and some buy extra flowers and some buy no flowers at all.
I’d like to share with you one final thought on flowers and Shavuos:
As a teenager, I once wanted to thank my friend’s mother. Throughout all of our senior year of high school we spent a lot time in this home and made a whole lot of noise. I decided to buy her some flowers. She thanked me and told me that she never gets flowers from her husband. Before I could ask why, her husband, who was in the next room, went on a rant explaining to me how silly it was to buy flowers. To his credit, he would regularly buy his wife jewelry. But flowers, he pointed out, don’t last. It made no sense to him to invest in something that was going to die a few days later.
He was right, there is nothing you could do with flowers. They are useless, they serve no utilitarian purpose. And that’s what makes them so beautifully meaningful! Flowers convey a message of affection in its truest form. You could give someone some jewelry today, but a month later, does your spouse know that you still feel the same way?
Flowers have a short lifespan, but they represent a feeling, and like all feelings, it’s fleeting. The flowers eventually die, feelings eventually dissipate, and when they do, it’s time to go back to Trader Joe’s, it’s time to invest once again in the relationship.
In a loving relationship, it’s not enough to say, I bought you diamond a month ago, don’t you know I love you? I said I love you last week, do I really need to say it again? That doesn’t work. And that’s why the impracticality of flowers is the perfect representation of a relationship.
Out of all the many Mitzvos we have, Talmud Torah, studying Torah is the least practical. Yes, sometimes we study something that tells us what to do. But often, especially for those of you studying the Talmud, you’re left scratching your head, why am I studying this?
The answer is, it’s an act of love. Learning Torah is buying flowers for G-d.
There is a famous Talmudic passage that describes G-d holding the mountain over us. Many interpret this mountain over our heads in a menacing fashion, that G-d was threatening us that we better accept the Torah or else. But there is another interpretation, one which I prefer. In this explanation, the mountain over our heads is a canopy, a chuppah, and what G-d was saying to us was, I love you. The mountain is the chuppah, the Luchos are our Ketubah, and Shavuos is the beginning of a love affair with G-d.
If we want a relationship with G-d, which I know we all do, it’s not enough to show up to shul once a week, it’s not enough to give a gift of charity every month, like all relationships, it needs constant investment. That’s why our sages encourage daily Torah study over everything else. Talmud Torah k’neged kulam. It’s an opportunity to connect daily with our Divine lover. For those of you who have taken daily Torah study on, don’t stop. And for those who haven’t, Shavuos, the holiday that reminds us of the true nature of Judaism, is a great time to start. And yes, it’s true, studying Torah on a daily basis may not have tangible results, but then again, neither do flowers.
by Ner Tamid | May 25, 2025 | Sermons
There is an excavation site a few minute walk from the old city of Jerusalem, known as Ir David, the city of David. It’s viewed as one of the most important archeological digs in a country filled with important archeological digs. Next time you’re in Israel, it’s worth the time to stop by and take a tour.
There is an archeological term known as a tell. It’s when you uncover one layer dating to a certain period of history and then you keep digging and find another layer underneath from an earlier period. And then you dig deeper and find yet another layer from an even earlier period. Ir David is a perfect example of this form of typography.
There is a new section of Ir David that is opening soon that goes back to the Roman Era, about a thousand years ago. This past week, Ir David was in the news as archeologists found a golden ring dating back 2000 years. When I took my family there over Pesach, the tour guide described stamps or seals that were found there, with names of government officials mentioned by Yirmiyahu, the prophet Jeremiah; he lived over 2500 years ago. And there are tunnels you could walk through that date back to the Bronze Age.
To some degree this is true throughout Jerusalem. Whenever I walk its streets, I wonder to myself who laid down the ground beneath me. Which battles took place on this road, which sages of the Mishan walked through these streets debating the fine points of Halacha, and which Judean kings were paraded down this boulevard.
This idea of a tell, of layered history, is true not only in space, it’s true in time. My wife and I sometimes play a little game where we trace our children’s attributes to each family. This child’s math brain is from this family (not mine), this child’s smile is from this family (that’s mine), and this child’s loud voice is from… well, both families.
Sometimes I wonder how much deeper we could go. Where did those analytical skills come from? They didn’t just come from this child’s grandmother, they go back and back, to ancestor to ancestor to ancestor, to thousands of years of nature and nurture.
What about all the prayers and tears shed for me to even exist? By my mother? By my grandparents? And by all those who came before them?
We are all archeological tells. Our entire identity is made up of layer after layer after layer, even though when we see a person all we see is what stands before us. We cannot see all the layers that are animating every thought and action.
What is true for an individual is certainly true for a community.
Today, we are officially inaugurating the Rabbi Chaim Landau Lounge. It is a beautiful, airy, light-filled space, with a gorgeous portrait of Rabbi Landau, that was made possible by your generosity. It’s part of our front lobby which was made possible, also by your generosity and the generous volunteerism of many of you here.
I’ve been wondering about the young boy or girl who walks through this lobby in thirty years. They’ll see the picture of Rabbi Landau, but they never would have met him. They’ll see the names Herbert Bearman, Rebbetzin Leibowitz, Lynora and Harold Berman, the Reitberger’s, the many names on the plaques, and they will have no idea who most of these people were.
But that’s also not entirely true. Because while they may never have met those people, the impact they made is layered into this institution. The volunteers who put in hours and hours of blood, sweat, and tears, the donors who gave so generously, all of that is layered into the present.
One of the greatest Chassidic Rebbes, Rabbi Yehuda Leib Alter, otherwise known as the Sefas Emes used to share a story justifying how he was able to take over the Gerrer Chassidus at such a young age; he was 22. He spoke of a mountain climber who after years and years of training, climbed one of the highest mountains. After weeks of climbing through difficult terrain and climates, he reaches the summit. And when he gets there he sees a young scrawny boy on top of the mountain. “How in the world did you climb this mountain?!” he asks. And the young boy shrugs his shoulders and says, “I didn’t climb the mountain; I was born here.” We are all indebted to all those who came before us, all those who climbed before us, and allowed us to start our journey on top of a mountain.
What that means practically for us in this room is this: The fact that people in this shul associate the period of time between Pesach and Shavuos as a time of growth is because for two decades Rabbi Landau hosted Omer Lectures in our shul. The fact that this is such a warm shul is in part due to the fact that Rabbi Landau would spot a stranger walking into shul and run off this pulpit to greet them or the fact that he would visit new members in their home for a cup of tea. The fact that this shul is so staunchly Zionist and eager to discuss complicated topics that many other shuls would shy away from is a credit to the decades during which Rabbi Landau established those values. Selfishly, the fact that children in this shul are comfortable talking to rabbis is probably in part due to the many chocolate bars that Rabbi Landau distributed.
If you walk from my home to the shul, you could see the different stages of this building. The main building in red brick, the original front façade in browns and greys, the chapel addition in beige, and now the front lobby in white. Some have commented that it looks a little silly. We should just paint it all so it looks uniform. But it’s actually perfectly emblematic of the reality. This community is an archeological tell; our present is the sum total of all the many people and generations who came before us.
So yes, the boy or girl who walks through those halls in thirty years from now and thinks that they do not know who Rabbi Landau is, is mistaken. Rabbi Landau is coursing through the bloodstream of this shul. His values are animating our every decision. His persona is lifting up our shul culture. That boy or girl may look at that portrait of Rabbi Landau and think they’re looking at a relic of the past. What they don’t realize is that they are looking at a mirror, they are looking into a window of their own soul.
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/)
