Thursday, 24 Tammuz

Rabbi Yosef Palacci

There is a fascinating rule in the Jewish calendar: whenever Tishah B'av falls on a particular day of the week, the first night of Pesach falls on that very same day. If Tishah B'av is observed on Motzei Shabbat, then the first Seder will be on Motzei Shabbat. If Tishah B'av falls on Friday, then the first night of Pesach will also be Friday night.

What is the connection between Tishah B'av and the first night of Pesach? They appear to be complete opposites. Pesach celebrates redemption and the birth of the Jewish nation, while Tishah B'av mourns destruction, exile and loss. Yet Chazal tie them together. Why is this the case?

On the night of Pesach, we perform several unusual acts. We dip vegetables, eat maror, and reenact key moments in our national story. The commentaries explain that the dipping of the karpas recalls the sale of Yosef when the brothers dipped Yosef's coat into blood and presented it to their father. It was a tragic episode rooted in jealousy and conflict between brothers. And whenever there is conflict, separation follows.

That is always true. Business partners argue, and eventually they separate. Friends stop speaking, families become divided and communities fracture. Machlokes, when left unchecked, creates distance. Pesach was meant to repair that distance. Before leaving Egypt, the Jewish people were commanded to take a bundle of hyssop, dip it into the blood of the Korban Pesach, and place it upon the doorposts. The key word is bundle. The hyssop branches were tied together, united. Before redemption could occur, the people themselves had to become one people.

The message of Pesach is not merely freedom from Pharaoh. It is unity among Jews. It is the transformation of a collection of individuals into a nation bound together by a shared mission. Perhaps that is why Pesach and Tishah B'av always share the same day of the week. The lesson of one explains the tragedy of the other.

The Beis Hamikdash was destroyed because of sinat chinam, baseless hatred, while the redemption of Pesach was possible because of achdus, unity. The same lesson that brought us out of Egypt is the lesson we still need in order to leave exile.

That is why, thousands of years later, we are still sitting on the floor on Tishah B'av. We still struggle with the challenge of seeing one another as family. A Jew may wear a large yarmulke, a small yarmulke, or no yarmulke at all. He may belong to a different community, follow a different rabbi, or have different customs. But if he is a fellow Jew seeking to serve Hashem, then he is your brother. Why should external differences prevent us from loving one another?

The connection between Pesach and Tishah B'av is intentional. Pesach teaches us the secret of redemption and Tishah B'av reminds us of what happens when we forget it. The road from exile to redemption begins with rebuilding relationships and seeing every Jew as part of the same family. And when we learn that lesson, the day that once brought destruction will become the day that ushers in redemption.

Friday, 25 Tammuz

Rabbi Doniel Staum

Tishah B'av is the saddest day on the Jewish calendar.

As we build toward it, the mourning steadily intensifies. We begin with the Three Weeks, and then come the Nine Days, followed by the week in which Tishah B'av falls. The restrictions become increasingly severe as we move closer and closer to the moment of destruction. The seventh and eighth of Av mark the days when the enemy entered the Beis Hamikdash, and then comes the ninth of Av itself, the day the Temple was set ablaze.

Yet here we encounter one of the most puzzling features of Tishah B'av.

The Gemara (Taanis 29a) records the opinion of R’ Yochanan, who said that had it been up to him, he would have established the fast on the tenth of Av, because that is when most of the Beis Hamikdash actually burned. If so, something seems strange. At the very moment when the flames are consuming the Beis Hamikdash, we begin moving in the opposite direction. By midday on Tishah B'av, we rise from the floor, sit on chairs and recite Nachem and put on tallis and tefillin. The restrictions begin to ease. And shortly thereafter, the mourning gradually comes to an end. How does that make sense? Ordinarily, when tragedy strikes, the pain is most intense at the moment of loss and only afterward does consolation slowly begin. But Tishah B'av appears to work in reverse. The mourning grows stronger and stronger until the very point of destruction, and then in the midst of the destruction itself, we begin accepting comfort. Why?

I remember one Tishah B'av morning sitting in shul listening to Rabbi Avrohom Chaim Feuer, my rav throughout my teenage years, speak between the Kinnos. At one point, he described the destruction of Telz. Connected as he was to the Telz tradition, he spoke about the annihilation of an entire Jewish community—the men, the women, the children, the rabbanim, the talmidei chachamim—wiped out in a matter of hours. As he spoke, I remember feeling overwhelmed. The horror was almost unbearable and I wanted to cover my ears and cry out, "Enough! I can't listen anymore."

That was merely hearing about it.

What must it have been like for those who lived through the Churban? For those who witnessed the destruction of communities, families, and worlds? Tishah B'av asks us to feel not only the loss of the Beis Hamikdash, but all the tragedies that have scarred Jewish history.

And yet, despite all of that, halacha (Jewish law) instructs us to rise. A Jew's life is governed by halacha. And one of the great teachings of halacha is that mourning can never be our final destination. Part of the focus of Tishah B'av is learning how to stand back up.

There are people who, tragically, never recover from loss. The pain consumes them and they cannot move forward. But the Jewish people have always possessed a remarkable resilience. Again and again, we have endured devastation and we have buried dreams, communities, and loved ones. And yet, again and again, we have risen.

That is why, in the middle of Tishah B'av itself, halacha tells us to sit on a chair and to begin accepting consolation. It is not because the tragedy has disappeared and the pain is gone. It is because the ability to accept comfort is itself part of the mourning. It is the ability to mourn deeply while still believing in redemption. It is the ability to cry while still holding on to hope.

That is one of the hallmarks of the Jewish people and one of the reasons we are still here. As we recite as part of the Tachanun prayer, "U’v’chol zos shimcha lo shachachnu—And through all this, we have not forgotten Your Name.”

Not only have we not forgotten Hashem’s Name, but throughout every exile and persecution, we have continued to carry it proudly. The Beis Hamikdash may fall and our nation may be pushed to the ground, but the Jewish neshama never remains there.

Eventually, we rise. Eventually, we return.

Eventually, we rebuild.

Shabbat, 26 Tammuz

Rabbi Ilan Meirov

It is perplexing that the Shabbat immediately preceding Tishah B'av is known as Shabbat Chazon, the Shabbat of vision. The name comes from the opening words of the special haftarah we read, but Chazal explain there to be a further message within it.

Before we enter the darkness of Tishah B'av, we are challenged to have a vision. A vision of who we want to become, what Klal Yisrael can become, and what a rebuilt Jerusalem and Beit Hamikdash can become.

As Tishah B'av approaches, many focus on how they will get through the fast. After all, there is no eating and no drinking for more than twenty-four hours. It is often hot outside, energy levels are low, and people begin looking for ways to pass the time. How can I make the day go by faster? How can I avoid feeling the discomfort?

But that is not the goal of Tishah B'av. We are not trying to kill time. We are trying to use time. In fact, the discomfort of the fast itself can become a powerful teacher. When a person begins to feel weak, hungry, tired, and drained, he is reminded of how fragile life really is. The physical strength and confidence that often accompany us throughout the year suddenly begin to fade.

At that moment, a person can ask himself some difficult questions. What happened to all of my pride? What happened to all of my self-importance? Why do I spend so much time chasing distractions and desires when, after just a few hours without food and drink, I realize how vulnerable I truly am?

Many people have the custom to visit cemeteries on Tishah B'av or during this season. Standing among the graves of previous generations is a profoundly humbling experience. As you stand there fasting, feeling your own weakness, you are reminded that life is finite and that every one of us must eventually answer for how we lived.

What kind of relationship do I have with my spouse and children? What kind of relationship do I have with other segments of Klal Yisrael? What kind of relationship do I have with Hashem? What kind of middos do I possess? How strong is my emunah?

These are not questions for another day. These are Tishah B'av questions. It is a day that demands honesty and asks us to confront the causes of destruction, both nationally and personally.

If Chazal tell us that the Beit Hamikdash was destroyed because of sinat chinam (Yoma 9b), then we must ask ourselves where that sin still exists in our lives. Where is the resentment? Where are the unnecessary arguments and divisions?

Perhaps this is the time to reconcile with a family member and let go of an old dispute.  Perhaps this is the time to stop looking down on others because they have different customs, different traditions, or different backgrounds. So what? Every Jewish community is precious and every Jew is precious. If we truly want to see the rebuilding of the Beit Hamikdash, we must begin by removing the things that caused its destruction in the first place.

That is the message of Shabbat Chazon. Before we mourn what was lost, we must develop a vision of what can be rebuilt.

So let us begin. Let us begin rebuilding today the world of tomorrow.

Sunday, 27 Tammuz

Rabbi Yisroel Majeski

Tishah B'Av is a day of mourning and tears. Shlomo HaMelech refers in Koheles (3:4) to an "Eis livkos—A time to cry,” which Rashi explains refers to Tishah B'av. This is the day designated for crying. Certainly there is much to cry about. We cry over the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash and our exile. We cry over centuries of suffering and persecution and mourn for a world that is still broken and a people that are still waiting to come home.

Yet at the very same time, Tishah B'av is also a day of hope.

One of the fascinating features of the Jewish calendar is that the day of the week on which Tishah B'av falls is always the same day of the week on which the first night of Pesach falls (Rama, Orach Chaim 476:2). Our Sages saw profound meaning in this relationship.

Pesach represents redemption and freedom and Tishah B'av represents destruction and exile. And yet the calendar binds them together.

Just as quickly as we entered exile, we can leave it. The very day that symbolizes our deepest pain also contains within it the seeds of our greatest salvation. That is why Tishah B'av is never a day of despair. It is a day of mourning, but never a day of hopelessness.

There is a remarkable Gemara (Shabbos 31a) which teaches that when a person stands before the Heavenly Court, he will be asked several questions. One of them is, "Tzipisa l'yeshuah—Did you await salvation?" On a simple level, the question asks if we anticipated the final redemption of Mashiach. Great tzaddikim, in fact, lived with that expectation in a very real way. The Chofetz Chaim famously kept a suitcase ready because he genuinely believed that Mashiach could arrive at any moment.

But perhaps there is another dimension to the question.

My rebbe once shared a powerful story. He had a daughter who was in her mid-thirties and was struggling tremendously in shidduchim. Years passed, and the situation remained difficult. One day, he attended a wedding and met Rabbi Aryeh Finkel. Rabbi Finkel asked him, "How is your daughter doing?" My rebbe responded with a shrug, the kind of shrug that says, "What can I tell you? This is the situation." Rabbi Finkel immediately became serious. Looking directly at him, he said, "When Hashem asks you, 'Tzipisa l'yeshuah?' He is going to ask whether you were waiting for your personal salvation. Did you continue to hope or did you give up?"

Those words carry enormous power. Yes, the question refers to the redemption of Klal Yisrael on the whole, but it also refers to the personal salvations for which we wait throughout our lives. What are you davening for? What dream have you carried for years? Perhaps it is a shidduch, parnassah, health, a relationship that needs healing or a spiritual struggle you are trying to overcome. The question is not whether you have been waiting. The question is whether you have stopped waiting. Have you reached the point where you say, "It's never going to happen"? A Jew is not allowed to surrender hope. A Jew is not allowed to give up on redemption, whether national or personal.

This is one of the great messages of Tishah B'av. Chazal teach that Mashiach is born on Tishah B'av (Talmud Yerushalmi, Berachos 2:4; Eichah Rabbah 1:51), a reflection of the reality that the geulah emerges from the churban itself.

That is why we mourn. And, just the same, that is why we hope.

Monday, 28 Tammuz

Rabbi Shmuel Reichman

The story is told of a man who disappeared. One day, he simply didn't come home. His wife waited anxiously, at first assuming there must be some reason. Maybe he was delayed or something unexpected had come up. But as the hours turned into days, her concern turned into panic. She contacted the police and search parties were immediately organized. People began looking for him everywhere.

But he was nowhere to be found.

Eventually, the terrible realization began to set in. After enough time had passed, everyone started to conclude the same thing: he probably wasn't coming back. For his wife, it was devastating. This wasn't merely someone she knew. This was her husband, her partner, the person around whom she had built her life. Together they had built a home, raised a family, and shared dreams for the future. Suddenly, it felt as if her entire world had collapsed.

The children suffered as well. The older children understood enough to grasp the tragedy. But the younger ones were confused. "Where's Abba?" The person who had always been there was simply gone. The neighbors too felt the loss. They had davened with him and celebrated simchos with him.

The only group of people who didn’t feel when they heard about him missing were those living far away who had never heard of the man’s missing to begin with. 

A few weeks later, something miraculous happened. Against all odds, the man returned, alive and safe.

Imagine the scene.

The wife sees him and bursts into tears. Her husband, the center of her world, is back, despite thinking that he would never return. The children run toward him too, shouting gleefully, "Abba!" as the neighbors look on with smiles across their faces. But the people farther away? They barely notice.

Now here's the question. Who experiences the greatest joy when he comes back?

The people who felt the loss most deeply. His wife, children and those whose lives were bound up with his. The people who never understood what they lost can never fully appreciate what has returned.

In many ways, Tishah B'av is exactly like this. Tishah B'av is supposed to be an emotional response to a loss. We lost our connection to the Beit Hamikdash and a level of closeness to Hashem that is almost impossible for us to comprehend.

But the Beis Hamikdash was not merely a building. It was the place where the connection between Heaven and earth was most tangible. It was the place where a Jew could feel the Shechinah. It was the focal point of our relationship with Hashem. When that was taken away, something fundamental was lost.

The problem is that it is easy to not be like the wife or the children in this story. Maybe we are the neighbors. Maybe we are the people who live so far away that we barely even know something is missing. Every year we sit on the floor and try to mourn, yet we struggle. Why?

Because you can only mourn a loss if you recognize what has been lost.

Imagine someone who loses an arm. Every day of his life he remembers what it felt like to have two arms. Every time he sees another person, he is reminded of what he no longer possesses. But imagine someone born without an arm who has never seen another human being. He has no frame of reference and he doesn't even know what he's missing.

We were born into a world without a Beis Hamikdash. We have never seen the Kohen Gadol and we have never brought a korban. We have never felt the level of Divine awareness that existed when the Shechinah openly rested among the Jewish people. How can we mourn something we have never experienced? That is one of the great challenges of Tishah B'av. The challenge is to understand the loss.

But perhaps there are three ways to begin.

First, we have to make Jewish history our story. We cannot view ourselves as observers watching events that happened to somebody else. The destruction of the Beis Hamikdash is not ancient history. It is our history. The Jewish people are one extended family, and their story is our story.

Second, we have to realize that we are not mourning something that happened two thousand years ago. We are mourning something that is missing right now. Right now there is a level of connection to Hashem that we do not possess. The churban is a present reality.

Third, we have to invest time learning about what the Beis Hamikdash actually was. What did it mean to live in a world of prophecy? What did it mean to live with open miracles?

The more we learn about what existed, the more we begin to understand what is missing. And the more we understand what is missing, the more we will yearn for its return. That is really the goal of Tishah B'Av.

We are not simply remembering the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash. We are trying to experience, however faintly, the emptiness of a life without it. We should not remain the people down the block. We should strive to become like the children in the story, and ultimately like the spouse in the story: people who feel the loss deeply because they understand what it means.

Because those who truly understand the loss can truly appreciate the joy of its return.

Tuesday, 29 Tammuz

Rabbi Daniel Glatstein

As to the authorship of the Kinnos, Tosafos (Chagigah 13a) opines that they were composed by R’ Elazar the son of R’ Shimon. The Rashba (Teshuvos HaRashba 1:469), however, argues that it was authored by none other than the Tanna R’ Elazar ben Arach.

Considering the view of the Rashba, a remarkable insight emerges.

The Mishnah tells us that R’ Yochanan ben Zakkai praised R’ Elazar ben Arach in extraordinary terms. He possessed such greatness that if all the other sages were placed on one side of a scale and R’ Elazar ben Arach on the other, he would outweigh them all (Avos 2:12). He was one of the greatest of the Tannaim. And yet, when we think about R’ Elazar ben Arach, another story comes to mind.

The Gemara (Shabbos 147b) relates that R’ Elazar ben Arach once vacationed in the city of Durmaskis, which was known for its luxurious wellsprings of water. Eventually, however, he became so distracted and drawn to it that his knowledge of Torah diminished, reaching the point where he could not properly read a simple Pasuk in the Torah. When he came to the words "HaChodesh hazeh lachem—This month shall be for you” (Shemos 12:2), he mistakenly read them as "HaCheresh hayah libam—Their hearts became deaf.”

Simply understood, the message is devastating. R’ Elazar ben Arach lost it. The greatest of Tannaim experienced a profound spiritual decline. But then we encounter another Gemara (Chagigah 14b).

R’ Elazar ben Arach asked his teacher, R’ Yochanan ben Zakkai, to teach him the secrets of Maaseh Merkavah, the deepest mysteries of Torah. R’ Yochanan ben Zakkai initially refused, until eventually, R’ Elazar ben Arach began expounding upon these profound subjects himself and heavenly fire descended, angels gathered and the trees themselves burst forth in song. R’ Yochanan ben Zakkai, witnessing such a scene, was awed and kissed R’ Elazar ben Arach on the head and declared, "Praiseworthy are you, Avraham Avinu, that such a descendant emerged from you." R’ Yochanan ben Zakkai recognized that his student had reached the highest levels of Torah understanding.

The Maharsha raises a fascinating question. If R’ Yochanan ben Zakkai was not allowed to to teach R’ Elazar ben Arach such mystical secrets, how had he done so in the first place?

The Maharsha explains that originally R’ Elazar ben Arach was worthy of this knowledge and R’ Yochanan ben Zakkai had indeed taught it to him. However, after his spiritual decline and loss of Torah, he was no longer on that level and was not worthy of R’ Yochanan ben Zakkai teaching him such concepts.

But if that is true, an even more remarkable question emerges. How did he get back? If R’ Elazar ben Arach had fallen so far that he forgot his learning, how did he later reach such extraordinary heights that he could expound upon Maaseh Merkavah?

The answer is simple and powerful. He made a comeback. Rabbi Elazar ben Arach experienced a great nefilah, a tremendous fall. Yet he refused to remain there and he rebuilt himself. He climbed back to the very top.

We often hear inspiring stories about baalei teshuvah. Someone grows up without Torah, discovers Judaism and transforms their life. Those stories are beautiful and inspiring. But R’ Elazar ben Arach's story is different. He wasn't a baal teshuvah in the conventional sense. He wasn't someone who grew up distant from Torah. He was already one of the greatest sages of his generation, and yet, he still fell.

Perhaps that makes his story even more relevant. Many of us in our day and age are not struggling with how to begin. We're struggling with how to get back up. The challenge is what happens after a fall and failure; what happens when we are disappointed and set back. R’ Elazar ben Arach teaches us that no matter how great the decline, a comeback is possible.

Perhaps this is precisely why he is the proposed author of the kinnos of Tishah B'av. What is Tishah B'av if not the story of a fall? We once had a Beis Hamikdash, nevuah, the Shechinah in our midst, and now we sit on the floor mourning what was lost.

The kinot are not merely lamentations over destruction. They are prayers for restoration. They are expressions of the hope contained within the words: "Hashiveinu Hashem eilecha v'nashuvah chadesh yameinu k'kedem—Bring us back, Hashem, and we will return. Renew our days as of old” (Eicha 5:21).

The message of Tishah B'av is not that we can rise again. And perhaps no figure embodies that idea more powerfully than R’ Elazar ben Arach. The greatest of the Tannaim who lost everything and yet found his way back. His life is the living embodiment of the message of the kinnos: even after the greatest destruction, renewal remains possible. Even after the deepest exile and most painful fall, there can be return and redemption.

That is the hope of Tishah B'av and the promise of Hashiveinu Hashem eilecha v'nashuvah.

Wednesday, 1 Av

Rabbi Daniel Kalish

People are not just people. They are precious neshamos walking among us. Seen this way, neshamos that are misunderstood or have not yet found their place or who do not realize that there is a place in this world where they can thrive, they are in search of a home.

The Beis Hamikdash was that home.

It was a place of kibbutz galuyos in the deepest sense. It transcended the ingathering of exiles from distant lands, but forged the path for the ingathering of souls. It was a place where every Jew belonged.

For those souls, on Tisha B’av, I cry.

I cry for those who feel there is no place for them. I cry for those who feel pushed aside. For those who have never been given the message that they belong, that they matter and that they are wanted. The prophet says, "Nidchei Yisrael yechaneis—Hashem gathers in the dispersed of Israel.” Those words mean more than geography. They speak of the forgotten Jew, the struggling Jew, the Jew who is a little different, the Jew who never quite fit the mold.

The child who struggles in school or the teenager who cannot sit still at a desk. Or even the adult who feels out of place. The Jew who walks into a room and wonders if anyone wants him there. The Beis Hamikdash was the answer to that cry.

There, every Jew was welcomed. There, every Jew was wanted. There, every Jew was cherished. There, every Jewish soul was understood.

We all carry scars and burdens. We all carry our own korbanos. We all come with imperfections, failures, and wounds. Yet the message of the Beis Hamikdash was that none of those things disqualify us from belonging.

A Jew is wanted and appreciated. A Jew is loved. Nidchei Yisrael yechaneis.

For these I cry.

But such tears cannot merely dry on our cheekbones. We must do something. And so—

I resolve. I resolve to do something about it. I resolve to help create a world that reflects the vision of the Beis Hamikdash—a world in which every Jewish soul knows that it belongs.

A world where every Jew is welcomed and wanted, and understood and respected. A world where every Jew is loved.

As long as we still cry for those souls, as long as our hearts still ache for them, there remains hope. Because a heart that cries can still love and can still act.

And can bring the redemption.