Introduction

TorahAnytime is proud to present its latest companion, aimed at accompanying you Day by Day across the next Three Weeks, from the 17th of Tammuz through Tisha B’av. Providing you with one essay per day, you will be prepared to traverse through these days poised to extract the most from this spiritually charged time of year.

The following Part One contains seven original essays, spanning from Thursday, 17 Tammuz, through Wednesday, 23 Tammuz. Parts Two and Three will follow in the coming weeks.

May your journey through this period into the inner heart of the Three Weeks and Tisha B’av lay the bricks of the Third Beis Hamikdash and herald the ultimate redemption speedily in our days.

Thursday, 17 Tammuz

Rabbi Yaacov Haber

When we think of the Three Weeks and Tishah B'av, we naturally think of the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash. Yet the mourning of this day extends far beyond the loss of a building. If one studies the Kinnos, it becomes clear that we are mourning an entire world that was lost—a world of holiness, faith, simplicity, and closeness to Hashem.

Among the many losses we lament is the disappearance of countless miniature sanctuaries that once filled Jewish life. Not only was there a Beis Hamikdash in Jerusalem, but there was a Beis Hamikdash in Jewish homes. There were ordinary Jews who lived every moment with an awareness of Hashem's presence. These were simple Jews whose lives were infused with faith and whose daily actions were transformed into acts of holiness.

I am reminded of a beautiful passage from Rav Joseph B. Soloveitchik. In his inimitable style, the Rav writes:

"I see an image, an image of a carpenter. He was called Elia der Stolier. He was a plain Jew, a simple carpenter, and not particularly learned. However, he knew Tehillim by heart. He used to recite certain verses at particular times. When he finished making a table, he would recite the last verse of Tehillim: 'Kol haneshamah tehallel Kah—Let every soul praise Hashem.' He would recite a different verse when he began a project.

“My father used to say that Elia the carpenter was one of the Lamed-Vav Tzaddikim, the thirty-six hidden righteous ones. Surely his home was a Beis Hamikdash. And there were thousands and thousands of Jews like him.”

What an extraordinary image. A simple carpenter. Not a famous rabbi or great scholar. Yet every hammer stroke, every board he measured, every table he completed was accompanied by thoughts of Hashem.

Perhaps this, too, is part of what we mourn. We mourn not only the grandeur of the Temple in Jerusalem, but also the loss of that simple and beautiful Jew. The Jew who walked with Hashem through every moment of his day. The Jew who spoke to Hashem while he worked. The Jew who carried faith into the marketplace, the workshop, the kitchen, and the street. The Jew whose heart was a dwelling place for the Shechinah.

As we enter this time of year, let us ask ourselves: how can we invite Hashem back into our homes, our workplaces, our conversations, and our daily routines? How can we transform our own hearts into miniature sanctuaries for the Divine Presence?

May this be the year when Hashem restores all of His homes among the Jewish people.

Friday, 18 Tammuz

Rabbi Chanan Gordon

I think it is safe to say that in recent memory, the Jewish people have rarely appeared as divided as they do today.

On the surface, many point to judicial reform as the cause of this division. Yet if we look beneath the surface, we know that the issue runs far deeper than any single piece of legislation or political dispute. Some argue that the tensions stem from electoral outcomes, from the victories and defeats of political camps, and from the struggle for influence within Israeli society. There is certainly truth to that. But I believe the roots of this division lie deeper still.

Over the years, I have asked a number of Torah leaders and thinkers what they believe underpins the profound tensions within our people. Their answer was illuminating.

Deep within the recesses of every Jewish soul is the knowledge that we are one family. But there is something else as well. Every Jewish neshama longs for connection to something eternal, and it is the Torah which speaks to that deepest part of who we are. Whether consciously acknowledged or not, every Jew carries within himself a yearning for a relationship with Hashem.

The tragedy is that many people experience a tension between what they aspire to be and how they actually live. Rather than confronting that tension, human beings often project it outward. We become frustrated not only with ideas but with the people who remind us of questions we would rather avoid.

As a result, disagreements that begin as ideological disputes can quickly become personal. The debate is no longer merely about policies, politics, or competing visions for society. It becomes a struggle over identity itself. So what is the solution?

I believe we witnessed a glimpse of it a few years ago, July 23, 2023, at Jerusalem's Yitzhak Navon Train Station.

It began on an escalator. On one escalator stood protesters from one side of the political divide, while those from the other political stratum stood on the other. At first there was distance and divisiveness, both which could be felt palpably. Until someone reached across, an arm extending from one side to the other. It was quiet in its gesture, but loud in its message. Suddenly, the barriers began to melt away and people started singing together and some even embraced one another.  For a few brief moments, political labels disappeared and the realization that we are one people.

I will leave it to you to discover who extended the first hand across the aisle. That detail, whether significant or not, contains an important lesson. Someone must be willing to take the first step and lean across the aisle. Someone must be willing to say, "You are my brother and you are my sister. We may disagree, but I will not stop loving you."

That is the message of the Three Weeks and Tisha B'av. We sit on the floor and mourn the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash because of sinas chinam, baseless hatred. And if hatred destroyed the Temple, only love can rebuild it. Not conditional love. Not love reserved only for those who think as we do, vote as we do, or live as we do. Unconditional love with the willingness to greet first and forgive first. We can choose to remain trapped in old grievances and divisions or we can choose to become builders of kindness and extend ourselves across the divide.

May we merit to be among those builders who have the courage to take that first step.

Shabbat, 19 Tammuz

Rebbetzin Elana Mizrahi

I remember the day when I went to the supermarket with my oldest daughter and as we walked out, the heat was burning with intensity. We were chatting while I pushed our shopping cart along the sidewalk, trying to get away from the crowded entrance.

At the same time, a woman was walking ahead of us, pushing a shopping cart. Between her cart and mine was another cart with no one attending it. Thinking it had been abandoned, I reached forward to move it aside so we could pass. Suddenly, the woman turned around and began yelling at me. Apparently, the unattended cart was hers as well.

I had no way of knowing that. Equally so, I wasn't trying to take it or push it far away. I simply wanted to move it over slightly so we could get through. And yet she was furious.

For a moment, all I heard were the words of accusation and attack.

But then I realized there was more to hear. I stopped and looked at her more carefully. There she was, in the blazing sun, pushing two overloaded shopping carts by herself. I handed my daughter our cart and walked over, grabbed the second cart, and said, "Where are you headed? I have free hands. Let me help you."

Immediately, her muscles relaxed and her voice lowered. She smiled. "Thank you,” she said softly.

It is amazing how differently things sound when you truly listen.  So often in life, we feel attacked. Yet many of those situations stem from the same problem: we hear the words, but we do not hear the story.

According to Sefer Yetzirah, each of the twelve months corresponds to a tribe and to a particular koach hanefesh, a spiritual faculty of the soul. The month of Tammuz is associated with the power of sight. Av is associated with the power of hearing. But it is not merely hearing sounds; it is hearing deeply. Hearing context and the whole story.

How often does someone begin telling us something and, before they finish, we are already preparing our response? We hear one sentence and assume we understand everything. Yet if we would only wait and hear the full picture, we might discover an entirely different reality.

Along these lines, Rav Moshe Shapiro offers a beautiful insight.

When we hear a word, we do not hear it all at once. We hear one syllable, then another, and then another. Each syllable joins together to form a letter, letters combine to form words, words become sentences, and sentences become ideas. Meaning emerges only when the pieces are connected. If we hear only part of the word or the sentence and certainly the story, we misunderstand.

The same is true of a building. A building is constructed one brick at a time. Individually, none of those pieces is a building. Only when they are joined together does a structure emerge.

This brings us to the Beis Hamikdash.

When we speak about the destruction of the Temple, we use the word churban. Notably, the word chibur, connection, and churban, destruction, contain the very same letters. The difference lies in whether the pieces remain connected. The Beis Hamikdash was the ultimate place of chibur, for it was the meeting point between Heaven and earth, between Hashem and His people. That connection brought clarity and gave identity to the Jewish people. We knew what was right and what was wrong and we felt connected to something greater than themselves. When the Beis Hamikdash was destroyed, that clarity was diminished.

Yet notice something remarkable. We do not primarily describe the Temple as having been burned. We describe it as having been destroyed. When something is burned, it can seem as though nothing remains. But when something is destroyed, the pieces are still there. The stones remain. A destroyed building can be rebuilt because the pieces only need to be reconnected.

And perhaps that is our task during the month of Av. To reconnect and listen more carefully to the stories behind the words. The world is filled with broken fragments waiting to be connected together again. And maybe redemption begins with something as simple as hearing another person more fully.

So let us look around and open our eyes and our hearts and truly listen.

Because through that, this month of churban will become the month of chibur, once again and forever.

Sunday, 20 Tammuz

Rabbi Shmuel Silber

As we enter the period of the Three Weeks, known as the Bein HaMeitzarim, there are two fundamental principles that should occupy our minds and hearts.

The first is the extraordinary resilience of the Jewish people. When we arrive at Tishah B'av, we carry with us not only the memory of the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash, but nearly two thousand years of exile and suffering. Even to describe it as "difficult" feels far too inadequate. We think about expulsions, inquisitions, pogroms, massacres, and the Holocaust. We think about communities that were erased, families that were shattered, and dreams that were buried. And we are not merely remembering ancient history. We are living through the latest chapter of Jewish suffering.

Not long ago, hundreds of days into a painful war, hostages were still in captivity, families still grieving and soldiers still fighting. The Jewish people continued to carry a heavy burden. And yet we ask ourselves: how have we survived all this tragedy? How has Klal Yisrael endured?

Our Sages have coined the phrase: "Agav onsei, gamar u'makneh—By way of force, he decided and transferred it” (Bava Basra 48a). The strength of the Jewish people is our ability to accept the circumstances that come our way because we know that nothing happens outside the will of the Ribbono Shel Olam.

G-d is the master choreographer of history. He is the One who pulls every string and directs every scene. And therefore, even when life unfolds in ways we never would have chosen, we possess the ability to say: this is not the path I would have preferred and this is not the chapter I would have written. But if this is the reality that Hashem has given me, then I will accept it.

That is the secret of Jewish survival. We do not spend our energy obsessing over what could have been, should have been, or might have been. Instead, we focus on what is. We, in short, turn to acceptance. And with that, we are capable of adapting and growing, and taking the circumstances that have been handed to us and transforming them into opportunities. That is Agav onsei gamar u'makneh. We accept what Hashem has given us and leverage it to grow ourselves, individually and nationally.

But there is a second principle that must accompany the first.

Tishah B'av is not only a day of mourning. It is also the gateway to redemption. In many ways, Tishah B'av marks the beginning of the season of teshuva that culminates in the Yamim Nora'im.

Mourning without change accomplishes very little. The purpose of grief is transformation, and therefore, the purpose of Tishah B'av is not merely to remember what was destroyed, but to ask ourselves what we can rebuild. And here we encounter a second remarkable concept from our Sages on that very same page in the Talmud (ibid.):

"Kofin oto ad sheyomar rotzeh ani—We compel him until he says, ‘I want to.’”

On a simple level, the phrase refers to specific halachic contexts. But perhaps there is a homiletic message as well. The power of the Jewish people is so immense that when we unite in sincere teshuva, and when we elevate ourselves and maximize our spiritual potential, we create a force that reverberates throughout the world. And when enough Jews commit themselves to becoming better and more connected to Hashem and one another, something extraordinary happens: we usher redemption into the world.

If each of us uses these days wisely—engaging in honest reflection, meaningful teshuva, and sincere spiritual growth—then perhaps we will merit to see the fulfillment of our greatest hopes.

Let us hold these two truths together. The first is acceptance. The second is responsibility. Acceptance without growth leads to stagnation, and growth without acceptance leads to frustration.

But together, they form the path of Klal Yisrael.

Monday, 21 Tammuz

Rabbi Ari Neuwirth

After the Yom Kippur War, hundreds of women found themselves trapped in one of the most painful circumstances imaginable. Their husbands had gone off to war and never returned. Some were missing in action, while others had disappeared amid the chaos of battle. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. Deep down, many of these women understood that their husbands were likely not coming home, yet there was no certainty. They lived suspended between hope and despair, unable to move forward and unable to find closure.

Nearly nine hundred of these agunot eventually brought their cases before Rav Ovadia Yosef zt”l. One after another, they sat before him and recounted their stories. Each case carried its own unique tragedy: young wives left alone, children growing up without fathers, families whose lives had been shattered overnight. They came seeking a halachic solution, some path that would allow them to rebuild their lives while remaining faithful to the demands of Torah.

Rabbi Ovadia listened to every story, analyzing every detail. He reviewed testimony, evidence, and halachic precedents with extraordinary care. Yet beyond the legal questions stood the human suffering. Hearing these stories day after day was emotionally overwhelming. In front of the women, he maintained his composure. They needed a rabbi who could guide them, not one who would break down in front of them. But when the meetings ended and he was alone, the pain he carried could no longer be contained.

He would go into his private office and cry.

Not a tear here or there. He cried bitterly for these women and for the tragedies they had endured. Their anguish became his anguish and their uncertainty became his burden. The suffering weighed upon him so heavily that it began to affect him physically. His eyesight deteriorated. He consulted doctors, received treatments, and was prescribed medications and special eye drops. But nothing seemed to help. The emotional toll had become too great.

One day, Rabbi Ovadia made an unusual request of his children. He asked them to take him to Tzfat, to the resting place of the Beis Yosef, Rav Yosef Karo, whose monumental work had shaped the halachic tradition of Sephardic Jewry. When they arrived, Rabbi Ovadia stood by the kever and poured out his heart. He wept and prayed in the merit of the Beis Yosef, whose Torah he had dedicated his life to teaching and defending. He begged Hashem to restore his vision.

Remarkably, his eyesight returned, at least partially. Vision was restored in one eye. Nevertheless, from that day forward, he needed to wear special tinted glasses for the rest of his life. The experience left a permanent mark upon him, a reminder of how deeply he had shared in the pain of his people.

This is one of the lessons of Tishah B'av. Most of us may never cry as Rabbi Ovadia cried, and most of us may never carry another person's suffering so deeply that it affects our physical health. Yet maybe that is not what is being asked of us. When we sit on the floor and mourn the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash, along with the countless tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people throughout history, perhaps Hashem is not demanding torrents of tears.

Perhaps He is asking for something much simpler. Perhaps He is asking for one tear. One tear that says the pain of our people is our pain as well. Because sometimes, a single sincere tear is enough to show Hashem we care and bring an end to our long and bitter exile.

Rav Ovadia led the way. Ours is to continue the task.

Tuesday, 22 Tammuz

Rabbi Ariel Mizrahi

Chazal tell us that the First Beis Hamikdash was destroyed because the Jewish people were guilty of the three cardinal sins: idolatry, adultery, and murder (Yoma 9b). The Second Beis Hamikdash, however, stood during a time when Torah study flourished and those sins were not prevalent. Why then was it destroyed?

The Gemara famously answers: because of sinas chinam—baseless hatred (ibid.).

When we hear those words, our minds naturally go to a familiar place. We ask ourselves: Who do I dislike? Who am I angry at? Who hurt me? Who do I need to forgive? Those are important questions, and they are certainly part of the calculation. But perhaps there is another dimension to sinas chinam that deserves our attention.

Sometimes the opposite of love is not hatred. Sometimes it is indifference.

Think about a relationship. Two people may be arguing and saying hurtful things. While unhealthy, at least there is still engagement. At least each person cares enough to respond to the other. What is far more painful is when one person simply stops caring and they become indifferent.

On Tishah B'av, perhaps we should think not only about the people we dislike, but also about the people we overlook. The people who exist on the edges of our awareness. The people who are not useful to us, who do not benefit us, and therefore slowly become invisible.

Each of us lives in our own little world. We are busy with our schedules and responsibilities, and naturally, we tend to notice those who affect our lives directly. But what about everyone else?

The opening words of Megillas Eichah may hint at this very idea: "Eichah yashvah badad—How does she sit alone (Eicha 1:1). On a simple level, the Pasuk describes Jerusalem after its destruction. The city that was once filled with people now sits desolate and abandoned. But perhaps there is another layer to the statement.

Maybe it is possible for a city to be full of people and still be lonely. Maybe millions of people can live side by side, and yet every individual feels isolated because nobody notices anyone else. Everyone is busy and in their own world. The city is crowded, but every person sits badad, alone.

A man was driving through town in his brand-new Porsche, proudly showing it off to friends and neighbors. As he turned down one of the streets, he suddenly heard a loud crash. He slammed on the brakes and discovered that a brick had struck the side of his new car, leaving a sizeable dent. Furious, he jumped out, grabbed a young boy nearby, and demanded, "What are you doing? Are you crazy? Do you have any idea how much this car costs?"

The boy burst into tears. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know what else to do. I tried waving down cars, but nobody would stop." The man followed the boy's gaze and noticed another child lying on the sidewalk beside a wheelchair. "My brother fell out," the boy explained. "He's too heavy for me to lift by myself. I needed help."

Instantly, the man's anger disappeared. He rushed over, gently lifted the older boy back into his wheelchair, cleaned up some of the scrapes, and made sure he was okay. The younger brother thanked him repeatedly and began wheeling his brother home.

As the man walked back toward his Porsche, he looked at the dent in the side of the car. He never repaired it. He left it there as a permanent reminder:

Don't go through life so fast that someone has to throw a brick to get your attention.

We all have our "cars." We have our careers, our projects, our responsibilities, our schedules, and our distractions. We are moving so quickly that sometimes we fail to notice the people standing right beside us.

And then tragedy strikes. A crisis occurs and someone suffers.

Tishah B'av teaches us not to wait for the brick and not to wait for the tragedy. Do not wait until someone is hurting badly enough that we are forced to notice them. Perhaps that is why one of the customs of Tishah B'av is that we do not greet one another with "shalom."

It is a strange halacha, yet it reminds us how powerful a greeting really is. Throughout the year, how many people do we pass without saying hello? How many people walk by us unnoticed? How many people are longing for someone simply to acknowledge their existence? A simple "How are you doing?"

These things cost nothing, yet they can transform a person's day.  When we say "shalom" to another person, we are telling them: "I see you. You matter.”

This year, let us become more attentive to the people around us, because sometimes rebuilding the Beis Hamikdash begins with something as simple as noticing another Jew.

Wednesday, 23 Tammuz

Rabbi Tzvi Sytner

Itzhak Perlman is one of the world's greatest violinists.

As a child, Perlman contracted polio, leaving him unable to walk without braces on his legs and the assistance of crutches. And so, before every concert, he would slowly make his way across the stage. While others might casually stride to their seats, for him every step was deliberate and painful. The audience would watch as he carefully crossed the stage, reached his chair, and settled himself before lifting the violin to his shoulder.

On November 18, 1995, while performing at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center in New York City, something unexpected happened. In the middle of a difficult symphonic piece, one of the strings on his violin suddenly snapped. The sound was so sharp that many in the audience heard it immediately.

The orchestra stopped and the conductor froze and the audience fell silent. Everyone assumed the concert was over. After all, what else could happen? Surely Perlman would put down the violin, pick up his crutches, slowly make his way off the stage, and return a few minutes later with another instrument.

But he didn't move. Instead, he closed his eyes for a brief moment, gathered himself, and then nodded to the conductor. Continue.

The orchestra resumed playing exactly where they had left off. And Perlman continued playing with only three strings.

Musicians later remarked that what he did should have been impossible. The piece had been written for a four-string violin, and yet somehow, as he played, he adapted. He adjusted fingerings, altered passages, and recomposed portions of the music in real time.

When the final note was played, the entire hall erupted in applause. People rose to their feet, the ovation seemed endless. Eventually the applause subsided, and Perlman addressed the audience. "You know," he said, "sometimes it is the artist's task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left."

Most of us spend our lives expecting to play with four strings. We make plans, envision a certain future and assume life will unfold according to our expectations. And then, suddenly, a string breaks. A medical diagnosis arrives that we never anticipated. A relationship crumbles. A financial challenge emerges.

Something we were counting on is no longer there, and there and then, we face a choice.

We can spend the rest of our lives lamenting the missing string. Or we can learn to make music with the three that remain.

In many ways, this is the story of the Jewish people. Again and again, history has broken our strings. We lost our land. We lost our Beis Hamikdash. We lost communities and families. We lost generations. Yet somehow we never stopped playing. We never stopped building and we never stopped believing.

This reminds me of a beautiful distinction made by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks. Rabbi Sacks explained that optimism and hope are not the same thing. Optimism is the belief that things will get better. Hope is the belief that together we can make things better. Optimism waits for circumstances to change. Hope inspires us to change them.

That is why Tishah B'av is such a remarkable day.

It is certainly a day of mourning. We sit on the floor and we cry for the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash and for the tragedies that have accompanied Jewish history. Yet even on Tishah B'av itself, something remarkable happens. Halfway through the day, we move from the floor to a chair and the intensity of the mourning begins to ease.

Judaism never allows grief to have the final word. Even in the midst of mourning, there is hope and even in the midst of destruction, there is the possibility of rebuilding.

Even when a string has snapped, the music is not over.

As Jews, we have always understood that no matter how difficult the circumstances, we do not give up. No matter how much pain or suffering or hatred we encounter, we continue to move forward, and ultimately, we continue to hope.

We continue to make beautiful music with whatever instrument Hashem has placed into our hands.