Rebuilding Through Mourning 1
We don’t travel down memory lane for the memories. At least as a national
exercise, we do not revisit the past unless it has a bearing on the
present and future.
Why, then, the elaborate build up over the space of three weeks towards
Tisha B’Av, seemingly for the purpose of getting us to more tearfully
remember the past that was?
Furthermore, Chazal tell us[2] that Hashem decreed upon each deceased
that he should, in time, be forgotten. Yet, regarding the churban,
the pasuk proclaims[3] “If I forget Yerushalayim, let my right hand
forget its skill.” After some two thousand years, we urge ourselves to
remember, to not let go.
The inescapable conclusion we must reach is that we only forget the dead,
while Yerushalayim is very much alive. The essence of the Three Weeks is
to be stubborn and obstinate, to refuse to accept the destruction of
Yerushalayim. We cannot find “closure,” not after all the centuries that
have passed, because we cannot come to terms with life without the Beis
Hamikdosh.
A man unburdened himself to the Opter Rov, reciting his list of personal
tragedies and failures. Somewhere in the conversation, he sensed that the
Rov did not show sufficient signs of commiserating with him. Noting his
dissatisfaction, the Rov explained. “So you are deeply pained by your
circumstances. What about the korban tamid that was not
brought this morning? Tell me, are you also pained by that?”
Two thousand years after the last time the korban tamid was
brought, the Opter Rov could not understand that another Jew might not be
disconsolate regarding our inability to properly perform the avodah
of the Beis Hamikdosh. In his reaction, we get to the heart
of what avodah we should be performing during the Three Weeks.
The single most important ingredient is refusing to accept “reality.” We
cannot and should make peace with the loss of the Beis Hamikdosh.
Our longing for it rises to the level of an offering. Ironically, without
a Beis Hamikdosh, we can still offer korbanos – the
offering of shattered hearts, pining for reconnection with the
Shechinah. (Longing for something can sometimes be more valuable
than the thing itself.) This longing for the Beis Hamikdosh is an
important component of its rebuilding. The Three Weeks, our focused
longing for the Beis Hamikdosh, amounts to the beginning of its
reconstruction.
Our attitude in mourning differs from the way others mourn. Rav Meir
Chodosh zt”l saw an allusion to this in the Torah’s description of the
infant Moshe. “She opened it [the basket that bore Moshe] and saw the
child, and behold, a youth was crying. She took pity on him, and
said, ‘This is one of the Hebrew boys.’”[4] From his crying, Paroh’s
daughter understood that the baby was Jewish, because Jewish crying is
different from others. Most crying comes from a sense of rupture,
hopelessness and often despair. Jewish crying is forward looking, and is
rooted in longing and hope for the future. (For this reason, many
Holocaust victims were unable to cry. Having given up any hope for the
future, they were not able to cry the Jewish crying they were accustomed
to.)
A teaching of the Besht highlights the value of our mourning. Between (in
a manner of speaking) our world and Hashem’s, there are numerous “worlds”
that bridge the distance. Many of us are familiar with the names of some
of these conceptual worlds, like Atzilus, Beriah, and
Yetzirah. Among these worlds is one so rarified and lofty, that
nothing connected to physicality in any manner or form can penetrate.
When we stand in davening, we send our tefilos aloft,
launching them on what we hope will be the shortest trajectory to the
Kisei Hakavod. When they reach this particular world, taught the
Besht, they hit a barrier. Our tefilos, after all, are distilled
into words. Words are products of human speech, of physical beings.
Words still belong in our imperfect world, not in this lofty place we send
them.
Only one kind of davening makes it through this world. One element
makes its way through the barrier. The earnest feeling and sentiment of
our hearts, completely divorced from any limiting agents like mere words.
This inner will, this spiritual essence, fits right into this world. If
the words of davening are like a body, their inner essence is its
soul. Souls, indeed, are welcome in this world. (On the other hand, in
this particular world, words expressed that spring more from the lips than
the heart have no value. It is not that they count as something, albeit
less than davening with earnest kavanah. Here, the words
alone count for nothing at all. kavanah is the only currency
accepted. Without it, the tefilos have not meaning at all.)
In this world, our contemporary avodah during the Three Weeks
makes perfect sense. Even the korbanos have a physical side to
them. They all utilize objects and elements of the world around us. Our
sincere longing for closeness to Hashem, however, does not come from a
physical place. It can penetrate this world, and take its place there.
The destruction of the Beis Hamikdosh did not close the gate on
this kind of service to Hashem! In this world, the avodah of the
Beis Hamikdosh is still feasible. We perform it entirely from
within; our korban is the sadness, the longing that grows out of
our having been separated from the immediate Presence of our Creator.
There is an oblique reference to this lofty world in the Gemara[5] which
describes a “place” in Heaven where mourning does not reach. That place
is the world we have been describing, where the avodah of our
broken hearts accomplishes its task in the same way it did when the
Beis Hamikdosh stood. Ironically, in one sense the churban
of the physical Beis Hamikdosh had a positive impact on the quality
of our avodah . While the Beis Hamikdosh stood, it was
used by people who could long and yearn for those special sweet moments of
the year when they were touched by the direct contact with the
Shechinah. People of those times powerfully felt the general aura
of kedushah brought by the Shechinah’s presence in the Land and in
their midst. How they must have yearned for even more and greater
closeness!
We, however, have an ironic advantage. We know only of separation and
distance. We have only reconstructions and our imagination to use, to
gain some inkling of what it was like. We are capable of an intense
longing and yearning born of centuries of deprivation of the Beis
Hamikdosh. Hashem responds to it with great Ratzon.
Chazal tell us[6] that the enemy, entering the Heichal, discovered
the cheruvim locked in embrace. Not understanding what those
cheruvim represented, they mocked them. We, however, should have a
different problem with them. The gemara[7] relates that the
cheruvim were an accurate barometer of the relationship between
Hashem and His people. When Klal Yisrael did His bidding, the
cheruvim faced each other; when their obedience slackened, the
cheruvim faced the Heichal, but not towards each other. How
could it be that the cheruvim were positioned on the very day of
the churban to display love and closeness between Hashem and us?
Our development above presents a solution. The churban led directly
to great longing and expectation within us. Similarly, kivayachol,
it initiated great Ratzon within Hashem to bring about
reconciliation with His people, and the return of His Shechinah to
its appointed abode in Yerushalayim.
This Ratzon paves the way for the rebuilding of the Beis
Hamikdosh. Our aveilus for the Beis Hamikdosh is thus a
powerful factor in its reconstruction. There is wonderful irony in this,
and great hope. It is also a challenge to us each year as we enter our
national period of mourning.
1. Based on Nesivos Shalom, Bamidbar, pgs. 190-192
2. See Soferim, hosafah 1, 1:3
3. Tehilim 137:5
4. Shemos 2:6
5. Chagigah 5B. The reference is puzzling. While the gemara does say
that in this world there is no crying, it also says that mourning for the
churban is the exception, and does take place there!
6. Yoma 54B
7. Bava Basra 99A
Text Copyright © 2009 by Rabbi Yitzchok Adlerstein and Torah.org
