We are almost at the end of the Nine Days—a period in the Jewish calendar marked by introspection and sorrow. Our communal mourning culminates in Tisha B’Av, the Ninth of Av, which begins tomorrow evening.
Tisha B’Av is the day on which, according to tradition, both the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem were destroyed. Over the centuries, Tisha B’av has become a container for Jewish grief across generations: the Crusades, the expulsions from Spain and England, pogroms, the outbreak of World War I and various other tragedies.
This is a time when we allow ourselves to feel the weight of our grief. Joyous celebrations are discouraged. Music is hushed. These rituals invite us to sit with discomfort—to acknowledge the sadness we might feel.
This year especially, the grief of Tisha B’Av does not feel distant. It feels close. Personal. Immediate. Urgent. And so, even as we welcome Shabbat, we do so with heavy hearts.
We are now 665 days into a war that has reshaped our world–our sense of security, our political leanings, and our spiritual equilibrium. It is a time of prolonged pain and profound sadness.
Sadness for the hostages—still in captivity, still waiting. Each day is another day of torment for their families and for all of us who refuse to forget them.
Sadness for the soldiers of the IDF and their families—young people who should be studying, traveling, falling in love, are instead facing danger daily, making unbearable sacrifices, experiencing soul-wrenching moral dilemmas, and suffering from terrible trauma. We pray for their safety, and we remember those who have given their lives in defense of the Jewish people.
Sadness for innocent civilians in Gaza—for those caught in the crossfire, for families living with unimaginable loss, for children who did not choose this reality but are suffering deeply because of it. Whatever the causes, whomever we assign the blame—and there is much to go around—we must allow ourselves to feel grief for the humanitarian crisis unfolding before our eyes. Sadness is not a political stance; it is a human response to suffering.
Sadness for Jewish communities across the Diaspora, for our own hearts and souls—we thought antisemitism was just on the very fringes of society, even a thing largely of the past. But now we know all too well that this oldest hatred continually metastasizes, shape-shifts, and–tragically–endures.
Sadness for the moment in human history—a time defined by polarization, a dangerous loss of nuance, and a kind of forgetting. Forgetting that two truths can coexist. Forgetting that grief and empathy are not mutually exclusive. Forgetting the lessons we swore we would always remember.
Sadness for future generations—what kind of world are we leaving behind? Climate change. Artificial intelligence. Increased polarization, isolation, depression, and loneliness.
And yet, on the doorstep of Tisha B’Av, we arrive at Shabbat, a time for celebration, a time for joy. We light our candles. We bless the wine. We sing songs of gladness and praise.
Shabbat is our sanctuary in time. A sacred pause that reminds us: we are not alone, even in mourning we are accompanied by tradition, by community, by the spark of the Divine.
So, this week especially, I invite you to let the tears flow if you feel like you need a good cry. I invite you to feel the heaviness of this moment without rushing to lift it. I invite you to hold your grief and the grief of others with tenderness and kavod.
May the One who rebuilds shattered sanctuaries heal our broken hearts.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Yoshi