The three haftarot of admonition (tlata de-pur’anuta) read in the lead-up to Tisha B’Av, together with the mourning practices observed during these days, are ostensibly meant to evoke sorrow over the fate of our people and to inspire grief over the diminished stature of Israel and the ongoing exile. Of course, this reaches a peak on the day of Tisah B’Av itself. And yet, if we choose not to avert our gaze from reality, we must acknowledge that there is little resemblance between the grim depictions of Jeremiah’s prophecies and lamentations and the lives we live today.
[I]f we choose not to avert our gaze from reality, we must acknowledge that there is little resemblance between the grim depictions of Jeremiah’s prophecies and lamentations and the lives we live today
In the first of the tlata de-pur’anuta, we read: “For behold, I am summoning all the families of the kingdoms of the north, says Hashem; they shall come, and each shall set his throne at the entrance of the gates of Jerusalem, against all her surrounding walls.”[1]
A quick glance reveals that the United States indeed places its throne at the gates of Jerusalem—but not for war, rather for support and honor. In Haftarat Chazon, read just before Tisha B’Av, we encounter the verse: “Your land is desolate, your cities burned with fire; in your very presence, strangers devour your soil—it is desolate, as if overthrown by strangers.”[2] And the reality? It much more closely resembles the prophetic words of consolation: “Like consecrated sheep, like the flocks of Jerusalem on her festivals, so shall the ruined cities be filled with flocks of people.”[3]
On Tisha B’Av itself we sit on the ground and lament aloud: “How does the city sit solitary, that was full of people! She has become as a widow.”[4] But when we rise from our place and take a short walk through Jerusalem, we find ourselves struggling to make our way through the throngs crowding its streets. Over six hundred thousand Jews, may they increase, live in the Holy City and its environs.
Paradoxically, it seems that if we wish to properly observe the mitzvah of mourning during these days, we must strain ourselves, so to speak, to adopt a mindset that is pessimistic and divorced from reality. We must diminish the miraculous providence that surrounds us, and—Heaven forbid—deny the kindness of Hashem. Reality proclaims: “More than seven million Jews live in the Land of Israel.” And the despondent reply quickly diminishes the fact: “So what? There’s a similar number in the U.S.” Reality proclaims, “We live here in relative serenity, an island of calm in a sea of enemies, and even Iran’s nuclear threat is not more.” And up rises the rebuttal from the depths: “So what? Jews live peacefully in Switzerland, too.” Reality announces: “Torah study is flourishing in the Land of Israel as it never has before.” And the automatic response snaps back: “We are facing terrible decrees; kollels in Bnei Brak are being shut down.” Reality declares: “It is good for us here.” And the reflexive denial cries out: “Nonsense—it’s terrible.”
Is this truly our task these days? Is this what HaKadosh Baruch Hu desires? He caresses and embraces us, and we respond by crying, “Where is Abba?” Can such a thing be imagined?
Is this truly our task these days? Is this what HaKadosh Baruch Hu desires? He caresses and embraces us, and we respond by crying, “Where is Abba?” Can such a thing be imagined?
To answer this difficult question with integrity, we must return to fundamentals. That inquiry must address two core issues: the meaning of the destruction that befell our people nearly two thousand years ago, and the significance of our ingathering and settlement in this land over the past eighty years. We cannot fully explore both subjects within the scope of this essay, but I will attempt to say something about mourning today in reference to those two themes.
National Destruction
The primary meaning of losing a portion of land is the destruction of a people. In the most basic sense, a nation without a piece of land of its own cannot survive. According to the natural course of history, our exile from our land nearly two thousand years ago should have spelled our end—as it did for many nations, stronger than we.
And yet, HaKadosh Baruch Hu did not cast us off in our exile, and through a miraculous chain of events, we survived two thousand years of dispersion. Even so, life in exile was exceedingly difficult. The very existence of the Jewish people constantly hung by a thread, teetering on the brink of extinction. What did we not endure in those two thousand years? Persecutions, massacres, diabolical tortures, expulsions, mass murder, daily humiliations, and unimaginable poverty. We survived, but at a staggering cost in blood.
This is the most straightforward meaning of churban—national destruction. Life in exile, without a homeland of our own, was unbearably harsh and extracted a dear price in blood. Dwelling on the cursed soil of Europe and in the Arab lands, vulnerable to pillage, scorn, and the whims of unstable rulers, it was not difficult for us to read the verses of lamentation and shed tears like water. The vivid descriptions of the prophets expressed the daily realities of Jewish life.
Yet, on a deeper level, the destruction and exile of Israel hold a further significance, one that is not merely personal or circumstantial. As I will seek to explain, the churban altered something essential in the very form of Jewish identity.
Every person lives within a set of concentric circles, ever expanding outward: at the center stands the individual himself. Surrounding him is the circle of his immediate family. Around that, the extended family—parents, brothers, sisters—and beyond that, further circles: the local community, the sector to which one belongs, the inhabitants of one’s country, the Jewish people as a whole.
Our sense of belonging to a family, a community, a nation, a people—all of these mold who we are
Each of these circles influences our lives and our perception of reality. Each circle enriches us, offers us a particular view of ourselves, and stirs certain internal experiences and emotional states. This is how a human being is built: a particular within a collective, and the collective shapes the individual, each and every one. Our sense of belonging to a family, a community, a nation, a people—all of these mold who we are.
A significant part of our identity is based on our membership in one group or another. We identify ourselves as Jews, as Haredim, as members of a particular family, and only afterward as individuals with a given name. Our group affiliations influence our personalities far more than we tend to realize.
Belonging to a people occupies a deep place in the human heart. People are willing to sacrifice their lives for their nation. Why? Because their personal existence draws its meaning from belonging to the collective called “a people.” They feel that the failure of their nation is their personal failure, and its victory is their own. They do not give up their individual lives for the sake of the whole; rather, they give up personal comfort in the name of sustaining their identity.
I hold the view that every nation[5] possesses characteristic traits, central qualities, and a unique message to convey about the world and about reality.[6] How a nation tells its story to the world profoundly affects each and every individual within it. Each member of the nation feels themselves part of the story the nation tells.
The political struggles in the Knesset between opposing factions are not, as it sometimes seems, merely power struggles. The energy fueling these debates stems from a struggle over the very identity of the nation—over the story of the people, which is in fact the story of every individual. What is the message of our people, the Jewish people? What defines us as a nation? Our message does not concern itself merely with modes of conduct, or even with particular values, however lofty. Our message tells a story about the essence of existence, the purpose of the world, and the role of human beings. It is a story of a historic covenant with the Creator of the Universe, of a way of life He ordained for us, of the Torah He commanded us, and of His enduring providence over us throughout the generations.
The more meaningful the message of a nation and the sharper the contrast between it and the messages of other nations, the greater its influence on its members and on the shaping of their worldview
The more meaningful the message of a nation and the sharper the contrast between it and the messages of other nations, the greater its influence on its members and on the shaping of their worldview. Our national story is of the utmost significance, and accordingly, its presence within the Jewish inner identity is vast. Judaism occupies a central place in the identity of a traditional Jew. What I wish to propose below is that the meaning of the churban is the spiritual depletion of the Jewish people.
The Temple and the Spirit of the Nation
What is the significance of the Beit HaMikdash in the life of the Jew? The simple view sees the Temple as a wellspring of spiritual energy: a place to gather before Hashem on festivals and holy days, a site for offering sacrifices and performing repentance, a space for the sacred rites of Yom Kippur. The Temple was the meeting point between the Jew and his God, a place from which one could draw handfuls of holiness and spirit. All of this is true, of course, but it is not an exhaustive definition.
The Beit HaMikdash was not merely a place for individual service of God. It was a place that shaped the character and identity of the entire nation of Israel. It was the location that bound Israel, as a people, to HaKadosh Baruch Hu. The Temple’s primary significance was not personal but national.
The Temple was not only a center of divine encounter; it was a focal point of national identity. Every Jew felt connected to the nation through the presence of that sacred house at the heart of our collective life
In the days when we dwelled on our land and the Beit HaMikdash stood, the story of God and His Torah was inseparable from the national narrative. The Temple was not only a center of divine encounter; it was a focal point of national identity. Every Jew felt connected to the nation through the presence of that sacred house at the heart of our collective life. Jewish national existence placed God Himself at the center of the stage.
The Temple stood at the very heart of the people’s life. When there was a coup against the Davidic dynasty and Athaliah murdered the royal seed, the aunt of the young heir found no place more fitting to hide him than the upper chamber of the Holy of Holies. Hashem hosted the child and his nursemaid in His dwelling for six full years.[7] When Nechemiah rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem and Tobiah the Ammonite tried to dissuade him, he sent word warning that his life was in danger and he should spend the night inside the Temple’s walls.[8] At the time of the destruction, defenders entrenched themselves within the Temple Mount and fought like lions from there, as Josephus recounts.
When the Temple stood in its place, the sense that we are the people of God—that we have a mission and purpose to magnify His light and His glory—was deeply and tangibly felt. The profound meaning of Judaism was fully embedded in the spirit of the nation. That inner sense, nestled in the heart of every human being—the sense of national belonging—was a link connecting us with our God. HaKadosh Baruch Hu was our King in the most literal sense.
When Jewish soldiers went to war, they did so with the awareness that they were fighting under Hashem’s command, in defense of His domain. As Michal said to David: “For my lord fights the battles of Hashem”[9]—surely reflecting the sentiment of the people. And so says Yoab, the army commander, to his deputy Avishai: “Be strong, and let us strengthen ourselves for the sake of our people and for the cities of our God”.[10] Every Jewish soldier knew and felt that he was fighting for the House of God. The Kingdom of Israel in its glory was the kingdom of Hashem, as the verse says: “And their king shall pass before them, and Hashem at their head”.[11] The presence of God in national life was vivid and tangible.
In the absence of a tangible structure representing Hashem’s dominion over the people of Israel, faith retreated inward
The destruction of the Temple and the exile that followed did not merely strip us of our land; it severed our earthly connection to Hashem. In the absence of a tangible structure representing Hashem’s dominion over the people of Israel, faith retreated inward. It found expression in personal prayer and inner worship, but it lost its concrete manifestation in the public sphere of national life.
This is the deeper meaning of the churban. The loss of the Land of Israel was not merely the loss of physical infrastructure for earthly life. It was, above all, the loss of the spiritual infrastructure of our national existence. Without the Land of Israel, with the Temple at its center, we lack the central pillar of our spiritual life.
The answer to the question of why the prophets do not focus solely on the Temple’s destruction is that the full representation of national ruin is not the loss of the Temple alone. It is possible to serve God even without a Temple; in the absence of the Shechinah’s presence, the Temple is no more than wood and stone. The true destruction is the national destruction—the loss of the spirit of the people, whose fullest expression was in the House of God.
The Destruction Today
And so, we somehow endured even two thousand years of exile. We survived, miraculously, through the holy yeshivot and halls of Torah learning. These institutions served and continue to serve as a substitute for the locus of Shechinah once found in the Beit HaMikdash, as the Gemara says: “‘And I have been to them a small sanctuary’—said Rabbi Yitzchak: these are the synagogues and study halls in Babylon.”[12]
But what is happening with us today? Around seventy years ago, Hashem took pity on His people and gave us the opportunity to return to the Land of Israel. The Jews who rebuilt the land and laid its political foundations were, to our sorrow, distant from their spiritual origins. They aspired to create a new kind of Jew—one disconnected from the Torah way of life, one who does not place God and His Torah at the center of existence. Yet, in complete defiance of all expectations, the people of Israel as a whole are returning to their eternal roots, and the world of Torah is flourishing here more and more each day.
There is no doubt that we are living through one of the best periods in Jewish history. We are carried on the palm of God’s hand and experience miracles at every moment. We live in relative tranquility, enjoy economic stability, and have the freedom to practice and study Torah without interference. We feel at home. Despite all the arguments, we are ultimately living among beloved brothers and sisters.
Should we thank God for this, or lament troubles that do not exist? It would seem the question answers itself.
And yet, even so, Heaven forbid that we forget what matters most. The material aspects of the churban may indeed have been largely rectified. But the principal meaning of the churban—the depletion of the nation’s spiritual spirit—remains. The loss of the Temple and its absence from our lives today is not just a loss of spiritual stature. The deficiency is far more essential and far-reaching: it affects our entire national existence. As long as our Mikdash lies in ruins, as long as the center of Jewish national life in our capital city is the Knesset and the Supreme Court—and not the House of God, the true spiritual center of the Jewish People—then the heart of the matter is missing.
The national life of Israel today does not reflect our true values. Tragically, Israel’s unique distinction—meaning, its holiness—is absent from the national sphere
The people of Israel dwell in peace and calm in their land, under the constant grace of Hashem. But our national existence is spiritually impoverished. The national life of Israel today does not reflect our true values. Tragically, Israel’s unique distinction—meaning, its holiness—is absent from the national sphere. In its place stand impoverished and foreign secular ideals. At the heart of the nation, a foreign god resides.
He Who Merits, Will Rejoice in Her Joy
We began with the question: what is there to mourn today, when the security situation is, thank God, relatively calm, and the people of Israel are numerous and flourishing in peace and prosperity in their land? In light of what we have said, the answer is clear: our mourning is over the inner content of our national life, which still remains absent.
When the prophet laments, “Your land is desolate, your cities are burned with fire,” he certainly means the plain sense of the words, which were fully realized at the time of the destruction. But every prophetic statement holds a deeper meaning as well, one that expresses the root of the churban. The physical desolation of the cities of Israel is but the external reflection of the nation’s inner poverty.
We want to reconnect Jewish holiness with our national story. We want to see our King. To behold the Temple of Hashem established atop the mountains, and the will of Hashem reigning throughout all the systems of life in the Land
The call to mourning does not ask us to shut our eyes and ignore the unprecedented flourishing of the cities of Israel. On the contrary, we must open our eyes wide, deepen our vision, and aspire to restore the crown of the cities of Israel to its rightful glory, to make them truly Jewish cities.
We want to reconnect Jewish holiness with our national story. We want to see our King. To behold the Temple of Hashem established atop the mountains, and the will of Hashem reigning throughout all the systems of life in the Land. We long for the Jewish message to shine forth to all inhabitants of the earth.
We do not deny the goodness of God. It is precisely now, amid abundance, that we can lift our eyes to tomorrow and ask for what is real—for the inner substance of life—and yearn for the fulfillment of the prophetic vision:
“And it shall come to pass in the latter days, that the mountain of Hashem’s House shall be established at the top of the mountains, and shall be exalted above the hills, and all the nations shall stream to it. And many nations shall go and say: Come, let us go up to the mountain of Hashem, to the House of the God of Jacob, and He will teach us of His ways, and we will walk in His paths; for from Zion shall go forth Torah, and the word of Hashem from Jerusalem.”[13]
[1] Yirmiyahu 1.
[2] Yeshayahu 1.
[3] Yechezkel 36:38.
[4] Eicha 1.
[5] The distinction drawn here between am (people) and uma (nation) is as follows: am refers to the collective body, while uma refers to its spirit—the soul of the body. I have avoided the term le’om (nationhood) due to its modern connotations, but could not find an adequate substitute for its inflected forms. Phrases like “national-spiritual” (ha-ruach ha-le’umit) may sound awkward, yet when I speak of “national spirit” or “national narrative,” I am referring to the inner spirit and historical story of the am (people).
[6] This position lies at the heart of the debate surrounding the nature of nationalism. I adopt this view here, despite its current unpopularity.
[7] II Melachim 11.
[8] Nechemiah 6.
[9] I Shmuel 25.
[10] II Shmuel 10.
[11] Michah 2.
[12] Megillah 29a.
[13] Yeshayahu 2.
