The Mourning After

We emerge from a period of sorrow by reaffirming life, love, and creation


We have just emerged from the most painful period of the Jewish year, a time of sorrow and mourning known simply as "The Nine Days." The Nine Days culminate in a day of fasting and lament known as

Tisha B'Av

(the ninth of the month of Av). On this day, we remember a horrific array of tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people since the birth of its covenant with God, most poignantly the destruction (


)of both Holy Temples in Jerusalem.

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Imagine waking up one day and seeing the most important place in your world being burned to the ground. The place where you go to "taste and see" the presence of God, the place which embodies the love and commitment shared by you and your Creator, is being shamelessly destroyed by a hateful enemy. You are ultimately powerless to stop him, and God--for reasons you are not at all sure you understand--chooses to be silent as well. Has God abandoned you, declaring the covenant you had thought eternal null and void? You are paralyzed by confusion, sorrow, and even rage. How is it possible to live when all you value, care for, and aspire to has simply disappeared?

This is both a historically specific question--the Jewish people in Palestine in the year 70 C.E. must find a way to respond to the unimaginable devastation of the Churban--and a universal human one: What do I do on the morning after?

Judaism's first response is simple: Mourn. We cannot be expected to respond to destruction with immediate outpourings of courage and covenantal faithfulness. Courage, too, will have its moment, but for now we must simply cry, lament, and bewail our fate. This is the primary purpose of Tisha B'Av (and the Nine Days as a whole). We neither eat nor drink, we read the laments of a people humiliated and degraded again and again throughout its history, and we cry for the countless people and place that have so mercilessly been taken from us. Tisha B'Av allows us--forces us, actually--to sit fully inside of our sorrow. We sit shivah, as it were, for the tragedies that tear at the very heart of the Jewish people.

But shivah eventually ends, and life beckons us forward again. With a dogged faithfulness that almost defies explanation, the Jewish people have always responded to catastrophe by starting over, by creating and re-creating. Mourning what has been lost is critical, but giving up hope--or surrendering our sense of agency in the world--is forbidden. So the rabbis responded to the loss of the most sacred place in Judaism by developing an increasingly powerful sense of the portability of God's presence. If the Temple is no longer, then we will build other temples--our homes, our schools and study halls, and our more local places of worship--in which God's presence can dwell. If we cannot repair the world on a grand scale at this particular moment, then we would do well to remember that we can enact smaller-scale repair at each and every moment. Things may never again be exactly the same as they once were, but even amidst new depths of sorrow and devastation, fidelity and creativity remain possible--and are even required of us.

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