Thursday, 2 Av

Rabbi Tzvi Sytner

A woman in my community named Karen was sitting shivah for her father, and I went to pay a shivah call. After I sat down, she began telling me a remarkable story.

"My father was from Bulgaria," she said. "Shortly after the Holocaust, he moved to Israel. There he met my mother, they got married, and they began building a life together.

“It wasn't an easy life, though. They had very little money and lived in poverty. Nevertheless, they were excited when they welcomed their first child into the world. Tragically, however, their baby girl was very ill. She required multiple surgeries, and despite every effort, she passed away at only eight months old.

“The loss devastated us. My mother wanted to try again," Karen told me. "She wanted another child. But my father was terrified. He couldn't imagine going through that pain a second time. Eventually, my mother became pregnant again. But a few months into the pregnancy, the fear became too much for him. And he left.

“I was born shortly thereafter.

"I grew up not knowing that the man who raised me wasn't my biological father," she said. “It wasn't until I was a teenager that I learned the truth. Around the age of fifteen or sixteen, my biological father tried reaching out to the family. He wanted to reconnect and to get to know me. But he was told to stay away.

“Years passed. Then decades. Thirty-six years went by, in fact.

“Finally, about ten years ago, I decided I could no longer live without knowing who her father was. I just felt that I had to find him. I wanted to meet him. So I began searching. I looked through phone books, searched online and called every David Levy she could find in Israel.” One after another, she called. But all she got was the wrong number, wrong person or wrong family.

“Then one day someone answered. ‘Hello, is this David Levy?’ I asked. "Yes,’ came the answer. ‘Are you originally from Bulgaria?’ ‘Yes,’ came the further reply. ‘Did you once marry a woman named so-and-so?’

There was a pause. ‘Yes. Who is this? How do you know all of this about me?’ Karen's eyes filled with tears as she told me what happened next. "I know all this because you're my father." And then they both cried. She cried and he cried.

Years of separation dissolved in a single moment. During that conversation he told her that he had recently been diagnosed with brain cancer and that the prognosis was uncertain. Karen immediately booked a flight to Israel. And for the first time in her life, she met her father.

I asked her what that moment was like. She smiled. "You know, I thought it would feel awkward," she said. "I thought it would be strange meeting someone who was technically my father but who I'd never known." Then she shook her head. "It wasn't strange at all. It felt completely natural. It felt completely right. It just felt good to be with my father."

For the next ten years they built a relationship and spent time together. They visited one another, shared stories, memories, and experiences that had been delayed by decades but not denied forever.

Recently, he passed away.

As I sat there listening to Karen, I told her how much courage her story reflected. The courage it took for her father to keep wanting a relationship after all those years and the courage it took for her to begin searching.

But then I added. "Karen, I think you're telling the story of the Jewish people."

For thousands of years we have spoken about the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash. But we're not crying over stones. We're not mourning architecture. We're mourning a relationship. We're mourning the fact that we no longer experience our Father the way we once did. The Shechinah has departed, and many of us don't even realize what we're missing.

And yet throughout all these years, our Father in Heaven has never stopped wanting us. He never stopped longing for His children to come home. At the very same time, deep within the Jewish soul, there remains an unquenchable longing to return to Him.

That is what Tishah B'av is about. It is the pain of separation. But it is also the hope of reunion.

We know that one day we will return to Jerusalem and that one day the Beis Hamikdash will be rebuilt. We know that one day we will once again experience the closeness that our ancestors knew.

And when that day comes, I imagine it will feel very much like Karen described. Not foreign, but familiar. It will feel completely right. It will feel like coming home.

May we merit to see that day soon.

Friday, 3 Av

Rabbi Pinchas Landis

I was speaking with Rabbi Benzion Kravitz on the third day of Av, and he related a remarkable story that took place many years earlier on that very date.

Rabbi Kravitz and his wife were expecting a child. Tragically, his wife went into labor ten weeks before the baby's due date. In those days, a baby born so prematurely had virtually no chance of survival according to the medical experts. The situation was dire. The doctors informed the family that their primary concern was saving the mother's life. An emergency Caesarean section was scheduled, and the prognosis for the baby was bleak.

Rabbi Kravitz sent a message to the Lubavitcher Rebbe requesting a blessing and prayers on behalf of his wife and unborn child. As his wife was wheeled into surgery, the last words he said to her were: "May the Alter Rebbe, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, be a guter beter—a heavenly advocate—for us at this difficult moment."

A short while later, the surgery was completed. The doctor emerged and called Rabbi Kravitz inside. "I cannot explain this medically," he said. "But your wife is fine, and the baby is fine."

Rabbi Kravitz was overwhelmed with gratitude and relief. Then something unusual caught his attention. He looked at the doctor's name badge and saw the name: Dr. Tannenbaum. "By any chance," Rabbi Kravitz asked, "are you Jewish?" "Yes," the doctor replied. Rabbi Kravitz then asked: "And what is your Hebrew name?" The doctor answered: "Schneur Zalman."

The very name of the Alter Rebbe whom Rabbi Kravitz had invoked only moments earlier. The story could have ended there.

But it didn't.

The baby, of course, remained in intensive care for an extended period. Two days later, on the fifth day of Av, Rabbi Kravitz returned to visit his wife and newborn child. While speaking with the physician overseeing the baby's care, he glanced at the doctor's name badge.

This doctor's name was Dr. Luria. The fifth day of Av is the yahrzeit of the Arizal, Rabbi Yitzchak Luria, one of the greatest figures in Jewish mysticism and one of the towering spiritual influences whose teachings would later shape the world of Chassidus and Jewish thought.

Once again, a name appeared at precisely the moment when it carried profound significance.

Now, one can debate how to interpret such stories. But the message is undeniable.

There are moments in life when everything in front of us points toward failure. The statistics are against us. The experts are pessimistic. The science appears conclusive. Every fact on the ground tells us that the outcome we desire is impossible. And yet, those are often the moments when we discover a deeper truth.

There comes a point when the issue is no longer about statistics. No longer about probabilities or projections. At that moment, we realize that our future rests in the hands of the Ribbono Shel Olam. We do what we must. We consult the doctors and we follow the advice of experts. We act responsibly and wisely. But ultimately, we know that no doctor controls life. No statistic controls destiny and no prediction determines the future. Only Hashem does.

And when we reach those moments, there is one response available to every Jew: Tefillah. To turn upward and say, "Ribbono Shel Olam, this is in Your hands. Not in mine. Not in the hands of the doctors. In Yours alone. Please help us."

As we navigate our own challenges, our own uncertainties, and our own moments of fear, may we remember this lesson. When all other avenues appear closed, there is always one door that remains open: the door of prayer. The door of emunah is the door that leads directly to our Father in Heaven. And may the Ribbono Shel Olam grant us the merit to see His kindness openly, to experience His salvation, and to witness outcomes far greater than we ever thought possible.

Shabbat, 4 Av

Rabbi Doron Perez

Never in my life have I encountered someone who hates another person for absolutely no reason.

Sinat chinam, senseless hatred, is one of the most famous expressions in Chazal. Yet I have always struggled with the term itself. Chazal (Yoma 9b) tell us that the Second Beit Hamikdash was destroyed because of sinat chinam. But what exactly does that mean? Has there ever been a person who genuinely hates another without any cause whatsoever?

Even when those reasons are misguided, exaggerated, or unjustified, they are nevertheless real in the mind of the individual. A person says, "I dislike him because of what he did to me." Another says, "I cannot stand her because of what happened between us." Everyone believes they have a reason. Nobody wakes up in the morning and declares, "I simply dislike people for no reason at all." And yet Chazal identify sinat chinam as the spiritual disease that brought about the destruction of the Second Temple.

This raises a fundamental question: what exactly is sinat chinam? What was the sin that, according to our Sages, destroyed the Beit Hamikdash and ushered in a prolonged and painful exile that continues to this very day? To be sure, Jewish history over the past century has witnessed extraordinary moments of redemption. We have seen the return of millions of Jews to Eretz Yisrael, the rebuilding of Jerusalem, and the flourishing of Torah learning on a scale unimaginable in previous generations. Yet despite these remarkable developments, the Beit Hamikdash has not been rebuilt. The Temple Mount remains without its sacred center. In a profound sense, the exile continues.

If so, we must ask: what was the original sin, why is it so severe, and what is its remedy?

At the outset, it is important to recognize a principle articulated by Chazal and emphasized by the Rambam. If we continue to mourn and fast on Tishah B'Av, it is because the spiritual deficiency that caused the destruction has not yet been fully repaired. The Talmud teaches that every generation in which the Beit Hamikdash is not rebuilt is considered as if they participated in its destruction (Talmud Yerushalmi, Yoma 1:1). The implication is clear: the problem is not merely historical. It is contemporary.

To understand this more deeply, we must distinguish between two concepts that often appear together on Tishah B'Av but are fundamentally different: mourning and fasting.

A mourner is someone attempting to come to terms with loss. Mourning is the process of accepting a painful reality that cannot be changed. Fasting, however, is something entirely different. According to the Rambam, fasting is not about accepting reality; it is about transforming it. In his words: "There are days on which all Israel fasts because of the tragedies that occurred on them, in order to arouse the hearts and open the pathways of repentance" (Hilchot Ta'aniyot 5:1). A fast day is fundamentally an act of teshuva. It is a declaration that our actions matter, that history is not fixed, and that spiritual realities can be altered through repentance and growth.

A mourner learns to live with what has been lost. A person who fasts refuses to accept that the current reality must remain as it is. The mourning of the Three Weeks and Tishah B'av helps us confront the devastating consequences of the Churban. The fasting, however, serves an entirely different purpose. It is a call to action. It is an attempt to rectify the very conditions that brought about the destruction in the first place.

If this is true, then understanding the true meaning of sinat chinam is not merely an academic exercise. It is one of the most urgent religious questions we can ask. For if sinat chinam destroyed the Beit Hamikdash, then understanding its nature is the first step toward rebuilding it.

The Sefer Chareidim, authored approximately 450 years ago by Rabbi Elazar Azikri, one of the great kabbalists of Tzfat and a member of the circle of the Arizal, offers a startling insight. Discussing the prohibition, "Lo tisna es achicha bilvavecha—You shall not hate your brother in your heart," he writes: "Sinat chinam is the root of all evil." He then points us to the earliest chapters of Jewish history.

The first exile of the Jewish people began with the sale of Yosef. It began with division, resentment, suspicion, and ultimately hatred between brothers. That hatred set in motion a chain of events that culminated in the descent to Egypt and centuries of bondage and suffering.

Then the Sefer Chareidim makes an even more astonishing claim. Just as hatred was the catalyst for the first exile, so too it remains the cause of the final exile. The prolonged exile in which we still find ourselves is the consequence of sinat chinam. The First Temple was destroyed because of idolatry, immorality, and bloodshed. Yet those exiles were finite. The exile brought about by sinat chinam, however, has endured for nearly two millennia. In a certain sense, we have suffered more from this sin than from any of the cardinal transgressions that destroyed the First Temple.

This forces us to confront an uncomfortable truth. Whatever sinat chinam is, it cannot be dismissed as a minor flaw of character. It is not simply an unfortunate tendency toward interpersonal conflict. It is the root of all evil. More to this point, the Gemara describes the very generation accused of sinat chinam as a generation immersed in Torah study, meticulous in their observance of mitzvot, and distinguished by gemilut chasadim, acts of kindness and generosity. How can that be?

Here Rav Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin, the Netziv, offers one of the most penetrating insights ever written on the subject.

In his introduction to Ha'amek Davar, he explains that the people who were the recipients of these acts of kindness were not necessarily the same people who were the objects of suspicion and hostility. The generation of the Second Temple excelled at chesed, but primarily toward those whom they considered part of their own circle. They were kind toward those who shared their worldview, belonged to their camp and were regarded as legitimate servants of G-d. The problem arose when they encountered Jews who served G-d differently.

The Netziv writes: "Because there was baseless hatred in their hearts, each person suspected the other." The moment someone differed in religious outlook, practice, emphasis, or communal affiliation, suspicion began to grow. If another Jew's service of God looked different from mine, perhaps he was not merely mistaken. Perhaps he was dangerous. Perhaps he was an apikores.

The tragedy was not that there were genuine heretics. The tragedy was that the label was applied far too quickly. Anyone outside one's own ideological framework became suspect. Anyone who differed was viewed not as another servant of God pursuing truth through a different path, but as a threat to truth itself. The result was devastating. Within their own circles, people could be extraordinarily kind. They learned together, prayed together, supported one another, and built institutions of remarkable generosity. But the boundaries of that kindness were often confined to those who belonged. If you were part of my community, I would move mountains for you. If you were not, I might question your legitimacy altogether.

This is the chilling insight of the Netziv. The sin was not the absence of Torah, mitzvot or kindness. The sin was the inability to recognize the legitimacy and dignity of those who stood outside one's own camp.

In this sense, sinat chinam does not mean hatred without a reason. It means hatred generated by reasons that should never have justified hatred. It means transforming disagreement into delegitimization.  It means concluding that because another Jew is not like me, he must therefore be against me.

Historically, this description is remarkably accurate. The final decades of the Second Temple period were characterized by intense factionalism. There were Pharisees and Sadducees, Zealots and moderates, political factions, religious factions, and factions within factions. Increasingly, Jewish society fractured into competing groups, each convinced of the exclusive correctness of its own position.

The historian Josephus describes this period in haunting detail. When the Romans arrived to besiege Jerusalem, they encountered a city already at war with itself. According to Josephus, the Roman general Vespasian recognized that the Jews were destroying themselves more effectively than any foreign army could. Rather than engaging in costly warfare, he observed that internal division was accomplishing what Roman military might could not. The enemy, he noted, was consuming itself.

This observation echoes the tragic account recorded by Chazal. Jerusalem possessed vast storehouses of food and supplies, enough to withstand a prolonged siege. Yet extremist factions, convinced that compromise was impossible and that only total resistance was acceptable, burned those supplies. The city's greatest threat was no longer outside its walls. It was within them.

And perhaps that is the deepest meaning of sinat chinam. It is not merely interpersonal dislike. It is the inability to make room for another sincere Jew who serves God differently than I do. It is the conviction that truth belongs exclusively to my camp, my community, my ideology, and my interpretation. The Romans may have destroyed the walls of Jerusalem, but long before they arrived, the foundations had already begun to crack from within.

Among the discoveries from the caves of Qumran, where one of the Jewish sectarian communities of the Second Temple period resided, we find language that is both striking and revealing. Members of that community described themselves as the "Sons of Light" and referred to all those outside their circle as the "Sons of Darkness."

There, in a single phrase, we encounter the psychology that lies at the heart of sinat chinam. Those who are like us—those who share our worldview, our community, our interpretation of G-d's will—belong to the camp of light. They are recipients of Divine favor, worthy of our trust, our loyalty, our friendship, and our acts of kindness. But those who are not like us? They belong to the darkness. They are suspect and dangerous. Suddenly, the boundaries of community become the boundaries of morality itself.

And this, perhaps, is precisely what Chazal meant by sinat chinam. The issue is not the existence of disagreement. Judaism has always treasured vigorous debate. The pages of the Talmud are filled with arguments. Great schools of thought differed sharply with one another.

The problem begins when we cease debating ideas and begin disqualifying people. When we conclude that because another person is wrong, they must therefore be wicked. That is what transforms disagreement into sinat chinam.

The Netziv's language is extraordinarily precise. He explains that these people observed others who were serving G-d—nohag shelo kedarkam b'yirat Hashem. They saw individuals who feared G-d and sought to serve Him sincerely, but not in precisely the same way they did. Instead of acknowledging the legitimacy of another path within the service of God, they immediately became suspicious.

The result was a culture of accusation where every difference became a threat. And once that happens, hatred is never far behind.

I am often struck by how quickly human interaction can descend through a predictable series of stages. It begins with discourse. Discourse becomes discussion. Discussion becomes debate. Debate becomes dispute. Dispute becomes division. Division becomes delegitimization. Delegitimization becomes demonization.

That progression is one of the great dangers facing every society, every community, and every religious movement. The challenge is not to eliminate disagreement. The challenge is to prevent disagreement from becoming demonization.

We must preserve the ability to argue passionately while still recognizing the integrity of those with whom we disagree. We must challenge ideas without attacking identities. We must distinguish between rejecting an argument and rejecting a person. For the moment we lose that distinction, we find ourselves standing perilously close to the abyss of sinat chinam.

Rav Soloveitchik, in his Chamesh Derashot, develops this theme at length. Yosef and his brothers disagreed not merely about family dynamics, but about competing visions of Jewish destiny. Yosef's dreams reflected a sweeping vision of history, providence, economics, and leadership. Yehudah and the brothers viewed matters differently. They feared Yosef's approach. They challenged his assumptions. They disagreed with his vision. Disagreement, however, was not the tragedy. The tragedy occurred when ideological disagreement crossed the line and became personal rejection.

The very process that the Netziv identifies in the destruction of the Second Temple appears, in embryonic form, in the sale of Yosef. The dispute itself was not the problem. The inability to contain the dispute within the boundaries of fraternity was the problem.

That brings us to a remarkable historical fact. The only yahrzeit explicitly recorded in the Torah is that of Aharon HaKohen. The Torah tells us that Aharon died on the first day of the fifth month, or Rosh Chodesh Av. As we enter the month most associated with destruction and exile, the Torah directs our attention to the individual who perhaps more than any other embodied its remedy. The Mishnah teaches: "Be among the disciples of Aharon: loving peace and pursuing peace."

Aharon possessed a rare gift. He did not erase differences. He bridged them. He did not deny disagreements, but rather healed relationships. He understood that peace is not achieved by eliminating diversity, but by preserving affection despite diversity.

As Av begins and we enter the season of mourning, perhaps the Torah is teaching us that the antidote to the tragedy of sinat chinam is not uniformity of thought. It is generosity of spirit. Rav Kook famously taught that if the Temple was destroyed through sinat chinam, it will be rebuilt through ahavat chinam. Not sentimental or naïve love, but a principled commitment to seeing fellow Jews as partners in a shared covenant, even amidst profound disagreement. We may debate vigorously, argue passionately and defend our convictions without compromise. But we must never allow disagreement to become delegitimization, nor delegitimization to become demonization. For that is the path that leads from debate to destruction.

Perhaps the rebuilding of Jerusalem begins when we reverse that process and learn once again to see the image of G-d in those with whom we disagree, to recognize the sincerity of those who serve G-d differently than we do, and to become, in the fullest sense, disciples of Aharon HaKohen.

May we merit to replace sinat chinam with ahavat chinam, and in so doing hasten the rebuilding of Jerusalem and the Beit Hamikdash, speedily in our days.

Sunday, 5 Av

Rabbi Bentzion Shafier

One of the most intriguing features of the Jewish calendar is that every festival possesses a defining name that captures its essence. We speak of Pesach as Chag HaMatzos, Shavuos as Chag HaBikkurim, Sukkos as Chag Ha’Asif. Each title conveys the spiritual character and message of the day.

Tishah B’Av, however, appears to stand alone. The prophet Yirmiyahu, author of Megillas Eicha, explicitly refers to the day as a moed: “He proclaimed upon me a festival” (Eicha 1:15). The designation carries tangible halachic implications and has generated extensive discussion among the commentators. Yet despite its status as a moed, Tishah B’Av possesses no distinctive name. We simply refer to it by its date: the ninth day of Av.

Perhaps therein lies its deepest message.

The Maharal famously explains that numbers in Torah thought are not merely quantitative but qualitative. Seven represents the world of nature. Creation unfolds in seven days; the weekly cycle consists of seven days; the agricultural cycle culminates in the seventh year of Shemitah. Seven defines the natural order. Eight, by contrast, signifies transcendence. It points to that which rises above nature: the eighth day of circumcision, the eight days of Chanukah, the eight garments of the Kohen Gadol. Eight represents the realm beyond the ordinary structure of existence.

Ten symbolizes holiness itself. The Ten Commandments, the ten utterances of Creation, the ten trials of Avraham Avinu all point toward spiritual completion and sanctity. What, then, is the significance of nine?

The Maharal explains that nine functions as a bridge. It is the passageway between one realm and another. It represents transition, transformation, and emergence into an entirely new reality. Its most obvious expression is found in human birth. After nine months in the womb, a child enters a radically different world.  Nine, therefore, symbolizes the movement from one state to another.

This understanding sheds remarkable light on the meaning of Tishah B’Av.

At first glance, Tishah B’Av is the darkest day of the Jewish year as the day of destruction, exile, and national tragedy. Yet Chazal teach that Mashiach is born on Tishah B’Av. Embedded within the very day of destruction are the first stirrings of redemption.

The name itself reflects this truth. Tishah B’Av is not merely the ninth day of Av. It is the day of tishah—the day of transition, the day of yeshuah. It marks the movement from one spiritual reality to another. Within the ashes of destruction lie the seeds of renewal. Within exile rests the promise of redemption. Even the month itself offers consolation. The month is called Av, father. Though it contains the greatest national tragedies in Jewish history, it simultaneously reminds us that we remain children of Avinu ShebaShamayim, our Father in Heaven. Even in moments of concealment, abandonment, and pain, the relationship endures.

This duality defines the essence of the day. Tishah B’Av is indeed a day of mourning, but it is not a day of despair. It is a day that teaches us to perceive redemption germinating beneath the surface of catastrophe. The destruction of the Second Beit HaMikdash, Chazal teach, resulted from sinat chinam, baseless hatred. Its repair requires ahavat chinam, unconditional love. To love another Jew not because he resembles us, agrees with us, or belongs to our community, but simply because he is a child of the same Father. To love the scholar and the soldier, the observant and the non-observant, the familiar and the unfamiliar. To love because they belong to Hashem.

And when we extend that love without calculation, Heaven responds measure for measure. Just as we embrace Hashem’s children, Hashem embraces His own. He grants us a yeshuah not solely because we have earned it, but because we are His beloved children.

Perhaps this is why Tishah B’Av requires no other name. Its name says everything. It is the festival of transition. The day that teaches that every exile contains the possibility of redemption, every destruction conceals renewal, and every tear carries within it the first glimmer of consolation.

The ninth of Av is not merely a commemoration of what was lost. It is the promise of what is yet to be found.

Monday, 6 Av

Rabbi Joey Haber

A while ago, Sapir Cohen described herself as someone who had not been particularly religious. Yet several months before October 7th, she began feeling that something was wrong. There was a heaviness within her, a sense that something was not right. After visiting several doctors, she was told that there was indeed a medical concern.

Around that time, she happened upon a chapter of Tehillim. Whether through social media or some other means, she came across a tradition that reciting this chapter for thirty consecutive days could bring healing. She had never been accustomed to saying Tehillim, but because she was searching for hope, she decided to begin. Day after day she recited that chapter. The thirtieth day was October 7th.

Two days before the attack, she became curious and decided to examine the chapter more carefully. To her surprise, she discovered that it was not really about illness at all. It was a chapter about conflict and war. Even more striking, it contained the word “Hamas.” Then came the unimaginable. She was taken hostage into Gaza.

Alongside her was another young woman, frightened and overwhelmed by the ordeal. At that moment, Sapir made a decision that would transform her experience. "I decided that this was no longer about me,” she said. Instead of focusing on her own fear, survival, and suffering, she chose to devote herself to caring for the other hostage. Her mission became helping this young woman endure. When they were about to be taken into the tunnels and the girl was terrified, Sapir even attempted to lighten the mood. "Listen," she joked, "if we're already in Gaza, we might as well see its most famous attraction—the tunnels."

Every day, every hour, her attention remained fixed on someone else. She continued reciting the chapter of Tehillim—the only prayer she really knew—and eventually she was freed.

But what stayed with me was not merely her survival story. It was the principle she articulated.

She said that in what should have been the most self-focused moment of her life, she deliberately chose to make it the most selfless moment of her life. And that decision changed everything. It did not remove the danger. But it transformed the way she experienced them.

No one wakes up in the morning and says, "How can I make somebody else's life miserable today?" No one says, "How can I inconvenience people? How can I leave a mess behind for someone else? How can I make somebody wait? How can I make someone feel insulted, frustrated, or ignored?" That's not who we are. The problem is usually not selfishness. The problem is cluelessness. Sometimes we fail to think one step beyond ourselves.

Every time you walk into a room, don't ask: "How are they going to respond to me?" "How much attention will I get?" "Will people appreciate me?"

Instead, arm yourself like a warrior and ask: "What can I do for the people in this room?" "How can I help?" "What effect will my actions have on others?" "How am I impacting the people around me?" The moment a person shifts from asking, "What am I getting?" to asking, "What am I giving?" everything changes.

The Beis HaMikdash was not destroyed because people were monsters. It was destroyed because people stopped seeing one another. They became absorbed in themselves.

The antidote is not grand heroics. It is awareness. It is walking into every situation asking not, "What do I need?" but "What does someone else need?"

And if we can learn that lesson—if we can train ourselves to see beyond ourselves—then perhaps we can begin rebuilding what was lost.

Tuesday, 7 Av

Rabbi Meir Simcha Sperling

Years ago, there was an attempted suicide bombing in Tel Aviv.

It occurred near a synagogue filled with people davening and not far from heavily populated areas where people were eating, walking, shopping, and enjoying an ordinary evening. The terrorist clearly intended to inflict mass casualties. Videos of the explosion circulated shortly afterward, and the force of the blast was terrifying. To imagine what might have happened had he reached his intended destination is almost unbearable. Yet Baruch Hashem, the unimaginable did not occur.

What happened? The bomb exploded prematurely. Before the terrorist reached his target, the device detonated. The only person killed was the terrorist himself.

Pause for a moment and consider that.

Nobody knew he was coming. Nobody intercepted him at the last second. There was no dramatic confrontation. There were countless Jews nearby, entirely unaware of the danger that was approaching them. And somehow, the bomb exploded moments too early.

The difference between tragedy and salvation was measured in seconds.

Everything that occurs in this world is under the supervision of Hakadosh Baruch Hu. Of course, Judaism demands hishtadlus. We must have security and intelligence services. We must have soldiers, police officers, and all the systems necessary to protect human life. We are grateful for them, and halachah requires us to take every reasonable measure to safeguard ourselves.

But we must never confuse the means with the Source.

Sometimes that truth is difficult to perceive. We see powerful armies, sophisticated technology, intelligence networks, aircraft, and defense systems. It becomes easy to attribute our safety solely to what is visible.

This incident was different. There was no interception. No military operation. No intelligence breakthrough. No elite unit arriving at the final moment. The bomb simply exploded too early.

It was a moment that reminded us that beyond all human effort stands the Ribbono Shel Olam. Why did Hashem protect those people?

We do not know. And we should be careful not to claim certainty where none exists.

But perhaps that question itself should inspire us. Maybe the merit came from a mitzvah performed by someone no one will ever know. Maybe it was a person who overcame hurt and forgave another Jew. Maybe it was a counselor in camp who included the child everyone else overlooked. Maybe it was a private act of tefillah. Maybe it was an act of tzedakah. Maybe it was a moment of self-control. Maybe it was an act of ahavas Yisrael.

We do not know.

But we do know this: salvation never appears from nowhere. Chazal teach us that every mitzvah matters. Somewhere, somehow, there was a zechus. And perhaps that is one of the messages we should take from such an event.

It is easy to think that our individual choices are insignificant. What difference does one act of kindness make? What difference does one act of bein adam l'chaveiro make?

Yet we never know what hangs in the balance. We never know which mitzvah tips the scale. We never know which act of goodness creates protection for countless others.

When we work on our relationships, when we become more sensitive to other people, when we choose kindness over anger, inclusion over indifference, generosity over selfishness, we are not merely improving ourselves. We are strengthening Klal Yisrael. And, in ways we can never fully comprehend, we are helping bring protection, blessing, and ultimately redemption closer to the Jewish people.

And sometimes, the difference between devastation and salvation may be far smaller than we ever imagined.

Wednesday, 8 Av

Rabbi Dovid Kaplan

If you look at any Jewish or Orthodox magazine or newspaper nowadays, you cannot fail to notice that they usually contain letters written by readers. Often, these letters suggest what Klal Yisrael needs to do in order to improve. Some advocate less lashon hara, others call for more tefillah, greater focus on emunah, or getting technology under control.

Many of these letters not only offer suggestions, but seem to possess some kind of prophetic insight into exactly why various problems are taking place in Klal Yisrael. Lots of ideas float around. Lots of opinions. And many people feel that they know what is best for the Jewish people.

First of all, we all know that the only ones who can truly say what Klal Yisrael needs are the Gedolei Yisrael. Only the Gedolim can properly identify the issues.

Someone once asked Rav Dovid Feinstein zt"l, after a certain community had suffered several tragedies, what they should work on. Rav Dovid responded, "What aveirah don't people have?" In other words, is everyone so perfect? Each person should figure out what he personally needs to improve. That was Rav Dovid's answer.

If you look at the Torah, when Bilam observed the tents of Klal Yisrael in the desert, the Torah tells us that he noticed the openings of the tents were not facing one another. Most people assume that if someone builds a house directly opposite yours, with windows looking into your home, you would be upset because of the invasion of your privacy. Now you cannot comfortably walk around your house or open your refrigerator without feeling observed.

But that is not Rashi's emphasis. Rashi says that the entrances were positioned in such a way that one person would not be able to look into another person's tent. In other words, Klal Yisrael's concern was not primarily about protecting their own privacy. Their concern was not invading someone else's privacy. That is what impressed Bilam.

Bilam was a man consumed by jealousy, honor, and desire. He was constantly focused on what others had. A jealous person is always looking at someone else. He is always examining another person's life. Bilam looked at Klal Yisrael and was astonished. How could there be a nation of people who were not preoccupied with everybody else's business? How could there be people who were not constantly peeking into someone else's tent?

That was what impressed him. Klal Yisrael in the midbar lived with sensitivity toward others. They were careful not to intrude.

When Tisha B'Av comes around, it is naturally a time of introspection and soul-searching. We know Chazal teach that the First Beis HaMikdash was destroyed because of idolatry, immorality, and murder. The Second Beis HaMikdash was destroyed because of sinas chinam, baseless hatred.

But I would like to suggest something. And yes, in doing so, I am doing exactly what those letter writers do in the magazines. I am offering my own suggestion for what Klal Yisrael should work on.

Perhaps instead of focusing on what is wrong with everybody else, we should focus on ourselves.

Instead of discussing what other people's children are doing, what other people's technological habits are, what other people's materialism looks like, perhaps we should ask: what am I doing? Where can I improve? How can I become a better Oved Hashem? How can I sharpen my focus in life? What are my goals? Where do I want to go spiritually? Where do I want my family to go? Where do I want my children to go?

If we would channel all the energy that we spend evaluating others into evaluating ourselves, we would grow tremendously. And if every individual Jew grew in that way, it could very well bring the ultimate yeshuah and the rebuilding of the Beis HaMikdash.

A rabbi of mine was once standing at the Kosel when a Swedish tourist approached him. She asked, "You're a rabbi, aren't you?" "Yes," he replied. "This is where the Temple once stood, correct?" "Yes." "May I ask you a question?" she said. "Of course." "Are there going to be sacrifices here today?" The rabbi answered, "As of right now, no. But maybe later today."

That is how a Jew is supposed to live.

We must live with the optimism that the Geulah can come at any moment.

And if each of us focuses on the areas in which we personally need improvement, then, be'ezras Hashem, the ultimate yeshuah will come and bring with it all other yeshuos.

Thursday, 9 Av

Rabbi Binyomin Pruzansky

There was a camp that was getting ready for Tisha B’Av and for visiting day, which was scheduled shortly afterward.

The head counselor had a great idea. He told each bunk that they would prepare a different kli of the Beis HaMikdash. One bunk would make the Mizbe’ach, another would make the Menorah, and each bunk would create its own vessel. On visiting day, they would display their creations for all the parents to see. At the same time, they were preparing for the Three Weeks, the Nine Days, and, of course, Tisha B’Av.

As the day approached, the head counselor gathered everyone together and said, “Tonight is Tisha B’Av. We’re going to sit around our model Beis HaMikdash and all of its keilim on the basketball court. We’ll hear stories about the Holocaust and about the Churban so that we can truly feel Tisha B’Av this year.”

It was a wonderful idea.

All the campers assembled and sat around the mock Beis HaMikdash. The head counselor began speaking about Tisha B’Av, connecting the campers to the theme of the day and to the significance of the Beis HaMikdash.

Then he said, “There was a great fire!” As he uttered those words, the campers suddenly looked up and noticed a fire in the air. “Look!” they shouted. A flaming ball was hurtling toward the Beis HaMikdash. The fireball crashed into the model Beis HaMikdash, and within moments it was engulfed in flames.

What the campers did not know was that the staff had rigged a wire from a nearby tree. They had wrapped a basketball in towels and blankets, lit it on fire, and sent it flying down the wire. The head counselor was in on the plan, but the campers were not.

As the model Beis HaMikdash burned, the campers cried out, “No! It’s our Beis HaMikdash!” Suddenly, they felt the loss.

They had invested effort into building it. They cared about it. It belonged to them. And because they felt ownership, they connected to the Churban in a way they never could have before.

We come to Tisha B’Av today and see a world that is, in many ways, up in flames. And we wonder: Ribbono Shel Olam, what is happening? How are we going to get through this?

We feel it. We truly feel it.

These are the words of Eichah: "Eichah yashvah vadad" — “How does she sit alone?” We feel alone. We cry out, “Hashem, where are You?” But the Midrash offers another reading. The word Eichah can also be read as “Ayekah—Where are you?” Hashem calls out to Klal Yisrael and asks: “Where are you? Do you feel My pain?”

And I think each and every one of us knows that we do. We feel the pain of our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisrael. As Eichah later says: "Bacho tivkeh ba’laylah"— She weeps bitterly in the night.” There is a double crying. There are tears for the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash. And there are tears for the destruction and suffering of our own generation.

What is the remedy?

It is these very tears. Because tears are not merely expressions of pain. They are expressions of emunah. The tears of a people who know that it is through these tears that the Beis HaMikdash will be rebuilt.

Because our tears are the seeds of the Geulah. He hears our tears. He hears our voices. And every tear ascends before Him.