Tisha B'Av is the saddest day on the Jewish calendar. But here's the truth: most of us don't really know how to feel it. Including me.
How do I cry over a Beit Hamikdash I never saw? How do I feel loss for something I've only heard about in stories? How do I mourn a building I never stepped foot in?
It's hard.
But maybe that's not the real question. Maybe the question is, what exactly are we mourning?
Because the building didn't fall in a vacuum. It was a symptom of a deeper sickness.
The First Temple was destroyed because we lost our moral compass. There was idol worship, violence, and injustice. But the Second Temple? That's the one that hits home. Because we were religious. We kept mitzvot. We learned Torah. But we couldn't stand each other.
And it got ugly. People turned against each other. They burned each other's storehouses. They mocked and humiliated their own brothers in public. And no one thought they were wrong. Everyone had a reason. Everyone had an excuse.
That's the thing about hatred. It always feels justified. Think about it: have you ever hated someone for no reason? Of course not. There's always a story. They said this. They did that. They crossed a line.
But that's exactly what Chazal meant when they called it sinat chinam. Not because it feels baseless, but because all hatred is baseless. The moment you start to hate, your mind creates reasons to hold onto it.
The Torah doesn't say "don't hate unless it's justified." It says: לא תשנא את אחיך בלבבך, don't hate your brother in your heart. Disagree? Fine. Debate? Sure. But don't hate. Because hate colors everything. It blinds. It dehumanizes. And once it takes root, it's hard to see the other person clearly ever again.
And let's be honest. We're living this again.
The language, the anger, the venom in our own communities. It's painful to watch. It's not just disagreement anymore. It's destruction. A politician makes a comment. Suddenly, he's evil. An activist shares an opinion. She's no longer a person. She's a target.
Just a few weeks ago, a public figure stood up and said something that really hurt me. He turned to a group of fellow Jews and said, "Don't share your problems with me. My people have their problems. You have yours."
And I sat there, and it hurt. Not because I was shocked. Sadly, I wasn't. But because I realized how far we've fallen. We've stopped seeing each other as our people. We've drawn lines. We've chosen teams. And if you're not on mine, I don't care.
But that's not what I believe.
Because if there's one thing Hitler taught us very well, it's that we don't get to choose which Jews are ours. He didn't ask how religious you were. He didn't care how you voted. He didn't check your level of observance or how many degrees you had. If you had a Jewish grandparent, you were marked. The gas chambers didn't ask questions. The death marches didn't take sides.
So how dare we?
Their problems are my problems. Because they're my people. The whole Jewish nation, right or left, religious or secular, chassidish or chiloni, they are my brothers and sisters. Their pain is my pain. Their struggle is mine.
And I might not agree with their complaints. I might think their views are wrong. I might even think they're absurd. But that doesn't mean I brush them off. And it definitely doesn't mean I hate them.
So maybe this year, we don't just mourn the walls that were destroyed. We mourn the walls we've built between each other. And maybe we start rebuilding not with grand gestures, but with small ones.
Find one person you usually write off, someone not like you, and look for one good thing in them. Religious or secular. Right or left. Loud or quiet. We don't have to agree. But we do have to care.
Because if we want Hashem to return to us, we first have to return to each other.
May this Tisha B'Av be our last one mourning, and may we soon merit the return of our hostages, the unity of our people, and the rebuilding of the Beit HaMikdash.
May this Tisha B'Av be our last one mourning. Rav Shlomo