This Wednesday evening as the sun sets, we will begin Tisha B’Av, the saddest day on the Jewish calendar. We gather to remember the destruction of the First and Second Temples, along with countless tragedies that have shaped Jewish history. We fast, sit low to the ground, dim the lights, and chant Megillat Eicha, the Book of Lamentations.
It is one of the few moments in Jewish life when we are not asked to fix, celebrate, or even explain. We are simply invited to lament.
Lamenting is different from sadness. Sadness is an emotion we feel, while lament is a sacred practice. It is the courage to give voice to grief, to name what has been broken, and to acknowledge what has been lost. In a world that often encourages us to move forward quickly, Judaism reminds us that some wounds deserve our attention and our embrace.
As a cantor, I have always been fascinated by the musical sound of Eicha. One might expect a book of lament to be chanted in the darkest, most mournful melodies imaginable. Yet the traditional trope does something unexpected: each verse begins in the major mode and moves toward its relative minor. The melody itself takes us on a musical journey from brightness toward sorrow.
At first, this may seem surprising. We often associate major keys with joy and minor keys with sadness. But perhaps the opening of Eicha is not meant to sound joyful at all. Perhaps it is meant to elevate the text. In Jewish music, melodies do more than express emotion; they also communicate significance. Just as Shabbat has its own elevated musical language, the melody of Eicha reminds us that lament itself is holy. We are not singing because the story is happy. We are singing because it matters.
I think about this same idea when I listen to Leonard Bernstein’s Symphony No. 1, Jeremiah, which sets words from the Book of Lamentations. Rather than ending with triumph or resolution, Bernstein allows the work to remain in its grief. He understood that lament is not a weakness to overcome, but an essential part of being human. Sometimes the most honest response is simply to mourn.
Our tradition teaches the same lesson.
Tisha B’Av does not ask us to solve the brokenness of the world in a single day. It asks us to remember. It asks us to acknowledge the destruction, loss, and pain, trusting that rebuilding begins when we first recognize what has been broken.
When we gather to chant Eicha, we join the generations of Jews who refused to let memory disappear. They understood that remembering is an act of faith. It affirms that what was lost mattered, and that our hope for the future is strengthened when we honestly confront the past.
I hope you will join us on Wednesday evening as we chant Eicha together. May we discover holiness in the act of lament, courage in remembrance, and strength to begin the sacred work of healing and rebuilding.