Not Eating Meat and Drinking Wine on the Nine Days in Judaism: The Value of Diminishing Happiness

I am sure you read that title and are wondering what the world is going on in my head. "Diminish happiness?! Why would you want to do that?!" Although multiple countries place value on the concept of happiness, it is especially pronounced in the United States. In the United States, the idea of "pursuit of happiness" is in the cultural DNA and the Declaration of Independence. The United States has been referred to as the "land of opportunity." The "American Dream" entails opportunity, success, material wealth, freedom, and happiness as ideals. Since positive psychology was founded in 1998, we have become even more obsessed societally speaking with a happy, carefree life focused on positivity and well-being (see here, here, and here). Placing such value on happiness plays a major role in why contemporary Jews have difficulty connecting to this time of year on the Jewish calendar.

We are currently in what is referred to as the Nine Days period, which takes place during the first nine days of the Jewish month of Av (אב). These Nine Days represent the communal and personal suffering that commemorates the calamities that have befallen the Jewish people. The list of tragedies include the destruction of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem, the expulsion of the Jewish people on the ninth of Av in the Gregorian year of 1492, and the outbreak of World War One. These Nine Days are treated inauspiciously and are traditionally treated as a time of danger, even in the year 2020. One of the aspects I found of intrigue this year is a passage in the Talmud (Ta'anit 26b):

משנכנס אב ממעטין בשמחה.

From the beginning of Av [to the Ninth of Av], one decreases acts of rejoicing.

Although this Talmudic passage does not prescribe what that entails, it has become tradition that we abstain from consuming wine and meat (Shulchan Aruch 551:9) since they represent joy (Talmud, Pesachim 109a). Other prohibitions have also been included, such as listening to music, shaving [for men], bathing for pleasure, laundry, or buying and wearing new clothing. What took me most aback about this is that that one decreases rejoicing. What is implied is that one actively becomes less joyful. Why would anyone do that? We should do what we can to be as happy as possible. Trying to lower one's happiness is counterintuitive to such concepts as self-care and wellness. 

Part of the answer can be found in a practice found on another Jewish holiday: Sukkot. On this harvest festival, a common custom is to read the Book of Ecclesiastes during the Shabbat of Sukkot. For anyone who has read Ecclesiastes, it is hardly an uplifting text. Yet we read it on a holiday referred to as "a time of our joy" (זמן שמחתינו). According to such rabbinic commentators as Avudraham and R. Azaryah Figo, we are meant to diminish our joy so it does not turn into frivolity. This is to help us better focus on serving G-d. 

If curtailing joy during a joyous occasion can have utility, I wonder if diminishing happiness during the saddest time on the Jewish calendar has value. While negativity bias hardwires us to think more pessimistically, the pursuit of happiness dates back to antiquity, whether that is Aristotle, Epicurus, or Confucius. Especially in a culture that highly values the pursuit of happiness and positive psychology, becoming less joyful is countercultural, to say the least. That might be true, but I think there is merit in doing so.  

If we lived happily all the time, we would have nothing with which to compare happiness. It would get old really quick. Paradoxically, we need difficult moments in life so we can better appreciate the happier moments. 

Here is another salient point. We live in a society with such material wealth. We value comfort so much that we do everything possible to avoid pain and discomfort. That might sound nice in theory, but it ignores the fact that the world has been, is, and always will be full of problems. The first of the Four Noble Truths in Buddhism is that life is dukkha. This word is commonly translated as "suffering," but I prefer the translation of "unease." Even with the seemingly good times, there is still a layer of anxiety and uncertainty underneath, and that is because of attachment to impermanence. As Mark Manson brings up in his book "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck," "You may salivate at the thought of a problem-free life full of everlasting happiness and eternal compassions, but back here on earth, the problems never cease...they merely get exchanged and/or upgraded." 

The Book of Ecclesiastes reminds us there is a season for everything, including a time to weep and a time to mourn (Ecclesiastes 3:4). The Jews who lost the First and Second Temples lost their homeland, a sense of unity, and their spiritual epicenter. It is okay to not be okay because that is part of the human experience. So many of us are experiencing that feeling of loss and uncertainty right now during this pandemic. The reason why I think this has hit so many people so hard is because it has shattered the illusions of certainty and comfort. The pandemic has imposed upon us that life is more fleeting and ephemeral than we could imagine. We are mourning what we consider the "old normal." 

We are allowed to mourn our losses, but we are not meant to get stuck in the past. More importantly, we are not meant to despair and give into hopelessness. When we read the book of Lamentations (איכה), there is a litany of calamity, ranging from raping and pillaging, starvation, and the seeming abandonment of G-d. Yet despair is not how the biblical text ends. Towards the end, there is a plea to "bring us back to G-d, and we shall return, and renew our days as of old (Lamentations 5:21)." Plus, if we go back to the Talmudic text cited at the beginning, it says that we are to diminish our joy. We are never meant to eliminate it. No matter how bad things got for the Jewish people (and believe me, there has been plenty!), giving up on hope has never been a Jewish value. 

Tragedy hits. That much is inescapable. As I brought up shortly before Passover, bitterness is a part of life. We choose whether to add some sweetness in our lives or not. We also see that concept in the climax of the Nine Days mourning, Tisha B'Av. Even as soon as the afternoon service (Mincha) of Tisha B'Av, we begin to pick ourselves up and start to remove the mourning practices that we take on during Tisha B'Av. Maimonides taught that Tisha B'Av represents that through destruction and loss comes new beginnings. Passover teaches us a similar lesson because the seder starts with brokenness and ends with praise and redemption. Another quote from Mark Manson: "Happiness requires struggle. It grows from problems. Joy doesn't just sprout out of the ground like daisies and rainbows. Real, serious, lifelong fulfillment and meaning have to be earned through the choosing and managing of our struggles." 

Ultimately, I think the certain practices of abstention during the Nine Days teaches us that we cannot run away from problems. Not every year is a pandemic year, but life is not all sunshine and rainbows either. Tangentially, the Stoics realized this by practicing negative visualization. In Stoicism, one meditates on dreadful scenarios. This hardly seems like a way to be happier because it focuses on the negative. However, it allows us to prepare for the worst, as well as acknowledge the nature of life. Rather than be about pessimism, it is about being prepared and being grateful for what one has. Since the ritualistic abstentions during the Nine Days act a metaphor to readily accept pain, uncertainty, and loss as a part of life, I would argue that they engender similar outcomes as the Stoic practice of negative visualization. 

Not accepting these facts of life could be making us more unhappy because it sets us up for unrealistic expectations and chasing an impossibility. Think of that irony: focusing on being happy all the time can lead to greater unhappiness, whereas cutting back on happiness from time to time and properly focusing on the negative can lead to greater happiness. By accepting the inevitability of unpleasantries in life, we create resilience, take the steps towards a new beginning, and bring greater meaning and happiness to our lives because we came to terms with the suffering and loss that we are bound to experience.

Tisha B'Av: What The Bar Kamtza Story Teaches About Perspective and Decision-Making

Yes, the Jewish fast day of Tisha B'Av ended this past Sunday, but I still have some thoughts from my observance this year. According to Jewish law, Torah study is generally prohibited on Tisha B'Av. This is because Torah is considered a source of happiness, whereas Tisha B'Av is a day where we are supposed to mourn and reflect. There are, however, some exceptions to that general rule. The passages from the Torah and Talmud that our Sages selected were the ones that were sad or depressing, in order to keep with the general mood of the fast day. One such Talmudic passage is in Tractate Gittin 55b-58a. Within that Talmudic passage is the story of Bar Kamtza (Gittin 55b) and how this led to the destruction of the Second Temple. Who was Bar Kamtza, and how did this story lead to such a terrible ending?

According to the Talmud, there was a rich man who had a friend named Kamtza and an enemy named Bar Kamtza. This rich man was going to throw a lavish party, and he wanted to invite his friends. The host told his servant to invite Kamtza. The servant ended up inviting Bar Kamtza by mistake. When Bar Kamzta arrived, the host was furious and wanted Bar Kamtza to leave. Bar Kamtza wanted to stay. He was willing to pay for his own food and drink. He even offered to pay for the whole party. That wasn't adequate for the host. The host was so furious at that point that he literally threw Bar Kamtza out. Bar Kamtza was interestingly angry with the Rabbis who were at the party because they sat there and did nothing. So Bar Kamtza went to the Roman prefect and lied about the Jews rebelling against the prefect. As proof, Bar Kamtza suggested to send the Jews an offering to see if they will accept it. If not, they're rebelling. Bar Kamtza was clever and made a blemish on the cows in such a way that it would not be acceptable under Jewish law. The Rabbis were willing to sacrifice it in order to keep the peace with the Roman government....all except one rabbi. Rabbi Zechariah ben Abkulas didn't want to because he didn't want to set bad precedent in terms of ritual. The same Rabbi spoke against killing Bar Kamza. Ultimately, the Rabbis did not sacrifice the animals. As a result, the Roman prefect got angry, destroyed the Second Temple, and exiled the Jews from the land of Israel.

While the story is an intriguing one, it leaves a lot to be desired because details are missing. Why are the host and Bar Kamtza on bad enough terms where the host felt the innate need to kick him out? Why did Bar Kamtza feel the need to punish the Rabbis instead of the person who publicly embarrassed him? Why did the rest of the Rabbis give into Rabbi Zechariah? Looking at the story, I have to wonder if there really is one person to blame. On this Tisha B'Av, my synagogue held a Tikkun Bar Kamtza, a sort of learning session to analyze the story and understand where each character was coming from. It's with that mindset I would like to proceed with analysis of the story and characters.

The Host's Perspective: The Talmud uses the word דבביה to describe Bar Kamtza. While it is commonly translated as "enemy," the Aramaic has a connotation of "one who speaks bad about others." With that in mind, perhaps the host did not want Bar Kamtza at the party because Bar Kamzta had already spoken ill of the host, so ill that Bar Kamtza's presence was a true trigger. Alternatively, perhaps the host was worried that Bar Kamtza would be gossiping at the party, and the host wanted none of that. The host might have felt the need to throw out Bar Kamtza because he felt insulted that he could have his friendship or self-respect bought off. On the other hand, perhaps he was so petty and had his ego so damaged that he didn't want to hear any of it.

Bar Kamtza's Perspective: There are some ways to look at Bar Kamtza. One is that he is so superficial that he buys friends off, and that he is so insecure that he needs to harm the entire Jewish people to satiate his ego. Here is another possibility. Maybe Bar Kamtza realized that he was out of line, and maybe he saw the invitation as an olive branch and an opportunity to reconcile with the host. And when Bar Kamtza arrived, he was so shocked both by the host's behavior and the Rabbis' indifference that he lost faith in a religion that is supposed to have a higher ethical standard. Bar Kamtza might have gone to the Roman authorities because the religious authorities hurt him one time too many.

The Rabbis' Perspective: The Rabbis need further examination, as well. It is possible that the Rabbis gave into bystander effect because they're human like everyone else. It is also possible that the Rabbis previously tried to intercede to no avail, and they did not want to get further involved because they knew that rebuking without influence is not only futile, but against Jewish law (Talmud, Yevamot 65b). It is also possible that the Rabbis were keeping calm as not to cause a panic because people look towards their spiritual leaders for guidance on how to act and how not to act.

And yet there's another take I have for the rabbis' perspective: weak leadership. The Rabbis didn't want to say anything at the party because they didn't want to be controversial. When the Romans presented the offering, the Rabbis didn't want to make any waves, even though the sacrifice would have been performed behind closed doors and the masses would have not known the difference. In part, I think the reason is that the Rabbis were overly obsessed with ritual minutiae without seeing the bigger picture. It wouldn't be the first time in Jewish history in which the means were conflated with the ends, especially with regards to sacrifices.

And there is yet another reason I think this is weak leadership. In the Talmudic passage, R. Yochanan doesn't blame Bar Kamtza, but rather R. Zechariah ben Abkulas for his [excessive] humility. The Talmud uses the word ענוותנותו to describe humility. I brought the definition up before when discussing Moses' humility. But in Hebrew, "humility" doesn't mean meek or self-deprecating. "Humility" means an honest sense of self-awareness, a mentality of "no less than my place, no more than my space." That means if the Talmud is attributing this word to R. Zechariah, then he knew that he was in no position to be making decisions. What's even worse is that the Rabbis of the time were so weak that they were incapable of foreseeing the outcome, which is bad because foresight is what the Talmud defines wisdom as (Tamid, 32a).

Postscript
George Santayana said that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. The story might be about two millennia old, but the story of Bar Kamtza has important lessons about Judaism and life more generally:

1. When we interact with others, we think we have the full picture. The truth is that even when we think we do, we don't. I think there were certain details omitted intentionally to remind us that in our interpersonal interactions, our knowledge is more incomplete than we think. This is why we need to take other perspectives into view and have a broader view.
2. While necessary, empathy is not enough to fully understand. In order to do so, you need to be mindful enough to take the other's perspective and walk in their shoes (Pirke Avot 2:4) to the point where you can "argue it from their side." This is not to say that you ultimately end up agreeing with the other person, but having their perspective in mind goes a long way.
3. When making a big decision, especially one that affects the fate of an entire people, make sure you keep your eye on the forest instead of obsessing over one little sapling. 
4. We should not practice a ritual for its own sake and have it void of spirituality. This is especially true if that needless obsession over minutiae means having the occupying rule come after the Jewish people, destroy the Temple, and force them into exile. 
5. Maybe the reason why the Talmudic story doesn't mention why the fight started between the host and Bar Kamtza in the first place is because it doesn't matter. Even if Bar Kamtza did something horrid prior to the party, two wrongs still don't make a right, not to mention that Jewish law teaches that rebuke is supposed to take place privately (Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, De'ot, 6:7). 
6. As R. Zechariah ben Abkulas illustrates, the worst choice you can make in life is not making a choice at all. Going for the path of least resistance can get you in all sorts of trouble because it means you are no longer able to exert control. 
7. Our words have the potential to do great harm or great good. Even if it is in more everyday interactions, we have the choice to use our words to uplift others instead of rejecting and bringing others down. 

I will conclude with this. Perspective is about looking at the bigger picture, which means looking beyond our own view. Good decision-making is about looking at the bigger picture, especially when in a leadership role. However, even small decisions can have a big impact. The Bar Kamtza story reminds us that our exertion of our free will matters, and has the potential to have major consequences, both good and bad. Whether in thought, action, and deed, let us reverse the needless hatred that brought down the Second Temple by bringing more good into this world.

Tisha B'Av Mincha: Transitioning from Mourning to Recovery

During the Three Weeks period, the Jews undergo a period of mourning the fallings of the First and Second Temples. The Three Weeks period starts with a fast, which leads to mourning practices. Those practices intensify during the beginning of the Jewish month of Av. The Three Weeks period reaches its climax during Tisha B'Av, the annual fast day that commemorates the anniversary of many tragedies that have befallen the Jewish people. It is the saddest day on the Jewish calendar that involves six main prohibitions: eating or drinking; washing or bathing; application of creams or oils; wearing leather shoes; sexual relations; Torah study.

What is particularly interesting is the progression of the day. We start of by wallowing in misery about all of the catastrophes that have befallen the Jewish people. The Scroll of Lamentations is read in the evening. There are special elegies (קינות), dirges rather, that are read in morning services. However, as the day continues, the mourning practices start to let up. We put on tefillin and the tallit during Mincha, as well as hear Torah and Haftarah portions that mention G-d's Thirteen Attributes of Mercy. At the end of Tisha B'Av, we are not only permitted to eat again, but it is tradition to say Kiddush Levanah. The practices of Tisha B'Av seem to suggest something about how to deal with loss and tragedy.

During Yom Kippur services, we learn that we can only metaphorically beat ourselves up so much. Tisha B'Av recognizes a similar limitation of the fragile human soul. We can only mourn so much. If we wallowed for days, it would probably be an overload. The Torah and Haftarah portions remind us that even when angry, G-d still is a merciful G-d. Even when we are at our lowest, G-d reminds us that all is not lost. In the Mishneh Torah (Ta'aniyot 5:3), Maimonides quotes Micah 3:12, which says "Zion will be plowed like a field." Yes, the Temple was destroyed, but a field that is plowed is plowed in order to make way for new crops. I won't go as far as to put it in the public policy parlance of creative destruction, but I will say that letting up on the entire day of mourning shows mourning. Instead of despair, we can move onto consolation. From that consolation, we can begin to pick ourselves up. When faced with any tragedy or catastrophe, it is easy to stay stuck in the past. The mercy shown in these leniences is meant to give us the opportunity to get up and start anew, much like a phoenix that emerges from the ashes.

When tragedy strikes, we have to remember that once it does strike, it has already happened. As much as we wish it would not happen, it did. Our reaction to tragedy is a turning point. Some of our most important lessons come from failure or tragedy. Do we remain captive by the past? Or do we simultaneously recognize the tragedy that happened while remembering that there is, as Maimonides reminds us, a future where there can be growth and a way to grow anew? We're never the same after tragedy, but we're not destined to fail, either. Tisha B'Av is the emotional low point in which we are meant to spiritually lift ourselves up and gradually prepare for the upcoming weeks leading to the High Holy Days. Yes, tragedy strikes, but how we move forward is up to us.

Some Tisha B'Av Thoughts on Building a Third Temple

Tisha B'Av is not the most relatable holiday out there for me on the Jewish calendar. We culminate the sadness of the Jewish people, and practically self-induce sadness. We remember a litany of national calamities that befell the Jewish people, most notably the loss of the First and Second temples. There are some who are so devastated by the loss of the Second Temple that they want to take their fervor and build a Third Temple. I don't share that enthusiasm, certainly not enough to hop a plane to Israel and pick up a shovel, hammer, or any other tool.

Part of my lack of enthusiasm is that a Third Temple would mean a return to a sacrificial system as a mode of worship. Sacrifices are a foreign concept of worship to me, as they are for so many modern Jews. The sacrificial system is an outdated, insipid concept. There are enough times in the Hebrew Scriptures where G-d admonishes the Jewish people because they have conflated the means (e.g., sacrifices) with the ends (i.e., becoming closer to G-d). If the sacrificial system were so wonderful, how come it was limited to one place and had other limitations? If sacrificing animals were so essential to Jewish practice, not only would G-d not have placed limits on sacrifices in the first place, but we would still be sacrificing animals. Notice how sacrificing animals is not a form of worship in a synagogue. Plus, Judaism would not have survived if Jews did not learn to adapt to the political reality of losing the land of Israel to foreign powers. 

Rabbi Nathan Cardozo summarizes many of my thoughts up quite well in a recent article he wrote:

The Temple service is not the ultimate form of worship that Judaism dreams about; it is only the beginning, a foretaste of what still needs to come. Its purpose is to function, though metaphoric rites, as a medium through which people are stimulated to take their first steps toward an inner transformation....It is not the culmination that needs to be achieved, but its sincere commencement....Whether or not the Temple will be rebuilt is not our concern, nor is it our dream. It is of little importance. What we dream of is the day when we will be able to transform ourselves and reconstruct the Temple's message within our hearts."

The loss of the Temple was so unfortunate not only because the Jewish people lost a sense of spiritual centrality, but also a form of worship that meant something to them. It is about dealing with loss and how to be consoled through the coping of that loss. We have all dealt with loss at some point, which is why the holiday is relatable on some level. It's still hard to relate because we have a Jewish state and we can visit a unified, thriving Jerusalem (I have!). We have seen that Judaism can be meaningful without a sacrificial system. I take Tisha B'Av as a time to reflect on loss and the effects it can have on us. I take it as a time to look back, not only on my life, but also the life of the Jewish people. Even with the sorrow entailed in the Tisha B'Av services and the rituals, that is not supposed to be the end-result.

Maimonides brings up an interesting point in Mishneh Torah (Ta'aniyot, Ch. 4, Pt. 1) about the purpose of such fasting. It is supposed to arouse us to repent, which is what R. Cardozo is saying. Yes, we take some time to look back, but we also take it as a time to pick ourselves up to move forward. If Jewish tradition teaches that we have not had a Temple for so long because of baseless hatred towards one's fellow [Jew], then I think repenting to inculcate a greater sense of Jewish unity, much like existed during the time of the Temple, is a good place to start. I think it's more mournful to see the inner bickering, the back-biting, and the downright malicious attacks on fellow Jews than I do a building. If the Temple is supposed to be a culmination of the spiritual values and ideals Jews are supposed to hold dear, then let's open ourselves to enough ahavat Yisrael and respect for other Jews, in spite of our differences. Since the Jews have not been able to develop that sort of unity for two millennia, it doesn't surprise me that a Third Temple has not been built. Until Jews can repent to a level of feeling a relatively boundless love, I don't see the point of mourning the loss of a building. Let's talk about treating other Jews with decency first. Then we can talk about a Third Temple.  

Tisha B'Av: Redemption Through Consoling Others

As we approach the most somber day of the year on the Jewish calendar, Tisha B'Av, I tend to get more contemplative. Tisha B'Av is a commemoration that is more difficult for a modern-day, non-Orthodox Jew such as myself, but I can still find reasons to observe Tisha B'Av. I don't mourn for the loss of a building because at the very least, if a building or a sacrificial system were that essential to Judaism or its spiritual core, Judaism would have ceased to exist for about two millennia. I mourn for the spiritual downfall that resulted in the Jewish people losing their spiritual center. I still mourn because the very baseless hatred (שנאת חנם) that destroyed the Second Temple and brought about the exile of the Jewish people still exists. Sure, we have more feelings of unification and ahavat Yisrael, such as when Hamas decides to attack Israel. However, if precedent is any indicator, we'll eventually go back to the internal quarreling and backbiting that is regrettably so common amongst Jews who disagree with one another, which is so regrettable since we are already such a small people and can hardly afford divisiveness.

When we interact with others, it's all too easy to forget that on the other end of that interaction is another live, sentient human being. Ego and the self can get in the way, which has the potential to distort the purpose in our interpersonal interactions. The reason that such שנאת חנם exists in the first place is that because people have a propensity to forget what it means to treat people with basic respect. 

How we go about treating people is all the more pronounced during Tisha B'Av. Tisha B'Av is a time to mourn and grieve. Similar to the Exodus that we are supposed to relive during Passover, we are asked to relive the emotional tumult that the Jews experienced when they lost the Second Temple, or even when a subset of Jews was exiled from a given country. We are to recreate the sense of loss through memory. We realize that there is a time to feel suffering. Do we want fellow human beings, or even G-d, hating on us when we're down? Absolutely not! When we're down on our luck is when we need to be most consoled. 

As Dr. Erica Brown points out in her well-written book In the Narrow Places: Daily Inspiration for the Three Weeks, there is one time in the year in the prayer book that we explicitly ask G-d to console us: Tisha B'Av. The additional supplication inserted in which we ask G-d to console us [specifically to rebuild Jerusalem] is נחם ("Console [us]"). While it's true that the Jewish people have restored Jerusalem back to Jewish sovereignty, there is still the need to relive what so many of our ancestors lived. Why? Because it helps us put ourselves in their shoes. It helps us understand the pain they felt, even though we never directly experienced it. It is a lesson in developing sympathy for others and the losses they feel. We should decidedly take the experience felt in נחם and apply it to our daily lives. How so?

We need consoling when things are not going well. We ask G-d to console us in our hour of need. If we ask this of G-d, we should also ask this of other human beings because we are created in G-d's Image. Suffering and struggle are part of the human experience. We all come across it a various moments in our lives. And when we do come across it, we hope that we can feel a sense of consolation. It helps to be able to reach out to others, verbalize our troubles, and have other people find ways to surmount the tough times. Even if they cannot do anything to change the circumstances, at least consoling you will help you weather it. As Dr. Brown brings up in her book (p. 75), "It is always more of a consolation if people understand our pain and reach out to us before we have to articulate our distress. We feel more loved when others can anticipate our feelings rather than when we have to spell them out. It makes us feel like we are the objects of their genuine concern. They have been thinking of us before we even told them of our distress."

In a more abstract sense, how does this work? The Sages had an answer to this: "Who is wise? He who foresees the consequences of his actions" (Tamid 32a). When we know someone is not doing well, we put ourselves in that person's shoes. The quintessential example of this in Jewish practice is when someone is sitting shiva. When attending a house of mourning, you should have the foresight, not to mention the social tact, to realize that there are certain things you do not say to someone in the grieving process. There are also proper ways to go about helping a person in their time of mourning.

It doesn't even have to be a time of mourning in which someone is in trouble. Take Abraham as an example. When the three men came to his tent, Abraham did not even need to ask what they needed (Genesis 18). Abraham had the foresight to realize that they were wandering in the desert, and that they would be hungry and thirsty. Without hesitation or question, Abraham immediately provided for all of their amenities because he had this foresight. 

We can act with this sort of alacrity in our own lives. If someone lost their job, חס ושלום, you would let them vent, emotionally support them through their period of unemployment, and help that individual find a job. If they broke their leg or fell ill, חס ושלום, you would visit them on a bikkur cholim visit and do whatever you could to help ensure a speedy recovery. There are many opportunities that we can help other people, Jewish or not, to ease their pain and suffering, and in certain cases, even eliminate it. While consolation is hardly the only way in which we can connect to others, it is certainly a way that we can perform mitzvahs, help the world be a better place than it was before, and inculcate the appreciation of essential humanity of those who are around us. Only by reversing the שנאת חנם that destroyed of the Second Temple can we hope to bring about the Messianic Era.

Tisha B'Av: Remembering the Past to Bring About a Better Future

Tisha B'Av has been one of those holidays where it's really hard to get into "the spirit of things." The primary premise behind the holiday is to remember various catastrophes that have befallen the Jewish people, most importantly the destruction of the First and Second Temples (בית המקדש). Getting sad over a ritual that most Jews, including myself, consider an "ancient relic" makes something like Tisha B'Av seem insipid. What's more is that this mourning process is counterintuitive.

How so? I analogize Tisha B'av to shiva (שבעה), which is the mourning process for the loss of a certain individual. The shiva process is most intense at its beginning and wanes in intensity as time passes. Not so with Tisha B'Av. Depending on your take, it has either intensified or maintained its intensity over the centuries. In either case, it hasn't lessened. Some are of the opinion that there was something wonderful about the days when there was a Temple. Why else would so many blessings in the Amidah be focused on the Temple? On the other hand, is it politically feasible to worry about building the Third Temple, especially when there is a mosque sitting on it? Is the Temple supposed to be more than just a building?

I want to return to my main point, which is we should approach Tisha B'Av much like we approach shiva. As time passes, we move on, we move forward. Even when we are in the intense stages of mourning, we don't say that "they're in a better place;" we honor their memories and remember how they lived. The remembering part is important. We remember the Exodus from Egypt. It happened 3,000 years ago. Yet we still have those biblical passages written on the scrolls of our tefillin. We are reminded it in our prayer books and during the kiddush for Shabbat. We even have a holiday for it: Passover.

Remembering is key. Without it, not only do we repeat history, but we lose our connection to the past. However, invoking memories is insufficient. We also have to honor the loss. Why?

Talk + No Action = Cheap

Talk + Action = Progress

As I pointed out last year, there is still a reason for Jews to lament and observe Tisha B'Av. I would like to now use that as a starting point and figure out how some ways to translate that sorrow into productive action.

For those of you Jews who are of the more religious persuasion, I am sure you will be mourning for the loss of the Temple. However, rather than show despair, we can think of ways to making messianic prophecy more of a reality. If it's in the narrow focus of restoring the Temple, think about making that possible.

Tisha B'Av can be inspiring on a Zionist level, which could either be reading some of the messianic prophecies more broadly or simply being Zionist. Israel is surrounded by enemies hellbent on her destruction, not to mention having to deal with internal quarreling. Israel can use all the help possible. We can work, either as individuals or as organizations, to improve upon the State of Israel, especially for those of us who are living outside of Israel. Donate money to Israel. Buy Israeli bonds. Advocate for Israel, even if it's using social media such as Facebook. By improving Israel, the ascent can be high enough where Israel can return to the "glory days" that are greatly missed by those who feel a sense of nostalgia during Tisha B'Av.

Being able to enact change on a domestic or international level might be too difficult for many, which is why some might look at Tisha B'Av on the individual level. It was the lashon hara and sinat chinam (needless hatred) of many individuals that brought down the Second Temple. Have Tisha B'Av be a day not just for studying Lamentations, but also for studying speech ethics or middot (character traits) such as loving-kindness or generosity. Although it's not bringing about world peace, at least it's about changing the world for those within your sphere of influence.

No matter how you decide to observe Tisha B'Av this year, may it bring you meaning!

Why Jews Should Still Lament and Fast on Tisha B'Av

I have always had a difficult time with Tisha B'Av.  For me, Judaism has been a forward-looking, optimistic worldview.  To have a day in which one would self-induce sadness seems counter-intuitive, to say the least.  I have found it even more difficult to observe Tisha B'Av since much like Maimonides (Guide for the Perplexed, III, xxxii), I have viewed the sacrificial system as a temporary concession to man's nature of clinging to that which one is accustomed.  I have no reason to mourn the loss of what I, as well as a majority of Jews, view as an ancient, insipid relic of the past.

For nearly two millennia, Judaism has survived without the sacrificial system because it has found ways to adapt to the loss of the Second Temple.  I dare say that Judaism has fared better without the sacrificial system in place. 

What's more is that for the first time in Jewish history, Jews not only have a nation-state, but also have a united Jerusalem.  This holiday has seemed to lose its edge at least since the unification of Jerusalem in 1967, if not during the creation of the state of Israel in 1948.  Even the Jews in the Diaspora have overall been emancipated and granted equal rights.  Have we reached a point where Judaism has lost the need for Tisha B'Av?  Can we discard it as an antiquated custom and confine it to the history books?

Although it appears as if there would be no reason to actually observe Tisha B'Av, I have to acquiesce that there might be reason to still observe, even if I have to do so reluctantly.  King Solomon said (Ecclesiastes 3:4) that there is a time to weep and a time to laugh.  But why weep?  Even though Jews have made considerable progress since the pre-Enlightenment days, Tisha B'Av is not a time to rejoice over progress made, but rather to lament over progress that has yet to be made.

We still live in a world with rampant anti-Semitism.  Although America offers unprecedented amounts of religious freedom in the Diaspora, anti-Semitism has not been this high on a worldwide level since pre-WWII.  What makes it worse is that it is coming from all walks of life, whether that would be the academic Left, the Islamic fundamentalists, or certain sects of right-winged Christianity. 

We still live in a world with abject poverty.  In Israel, nearly one in five lives below the poverty line.  The welfare system in Israel is immense.  The current protests in Israel demanding "social justice" are indicative of that fact.  Maybe we fast on Tisha B'Av is a reminder that there are hunger issues to be resolved in the Jewish community, let alone the entire world.

We still live in a world in which Israel is constantly threatened.  Teaching hatred of Jews is still an essential part of the curriculum in Palestinian public schools.  Iran is building nuclear arms, which would most likely be used to annihilate Israel.  Even the cold peace with Egypt has been beginning to thaw.  The Jewish people might have a nation-state, but national security is anything but set in stone.  As such, we still need to fast.

We still live in a world with a disunited Jewry.  What brought about the destruction of the Second Temple?  Baseless hatred between one's fellow Jew.  We see this tension in the State of Israel between the Religious Right and the Secular Left.  The Diaspora, most notably in America, has a similar tension between Orthodox and non-Orthodox.  The politicization of Judaism and Jewry continues to perpetuate the disunification of the Jewish people that has existed since the falling of the Second Temple. 

In short, do not feel sadness for some nostalgia that most likely never fully occurred with regards to the Second Temple in the first place.  Be sad because the Jewish world is still in a state of tension and strife, or to put it in more religious parlance, messianic prophecies have yet to be fulfilled.   There are still those who hate Jews.  There are still enemies that threaten the nation-state that took so much work to build.  Even internally, both in the land of Israel and amongst Jewry, Jews constantly deal with internal conflicts. 

However, this should not bring us to meekness or a sense of futility.  It should be a time of the year to look at our more communal issues and bring awareness to this "harsh reality."  King Solomon was correct that there is a time to weep.  But we should be so moved by the fact that this is our current reality that we should be inspired to change it.

Tisha B'Av is a time of awareness for Jews.  Jews need to be aware of how tragedies have befallen upon them in the past.  But also, there needs to be a directive towards learning from those downfalls and figuring out how we can apply them to the current situation.  With that level of awareness, we can confidently head in a better direction. 

שנאת חינם: The Power of Baseless Hatred

Tisha B'Av, which is coming up in less than a week, commemorates a plethora of cataclysmic events that have befallen the Jewish people on the 9th of Av.  The two most important ones are the destructions of the First and Second Temples.  The Bablyonian Talmud, and more specifically Yoma 9b, goes into why each Temple was destroyed:

The First Temple was destroyed because murder, idolatry, and giluy arayot (commonly translated as licentiousness or sexual immorality) were rampant.  The Second Temple, however, was brought down by שנאת חנם, or baseless hatred.     

First, I would like to propose whether the hatred of individuals can provoke the destruction of a Temple.  It can, and it did, especially when that hatred permeated to the highest levels of society and touched the institutional levels.  Right before the destruction of the Second Temple, there was such fragmentation amongst the Jewish people.  Sectarian quarrelling could not even allow one Jew listen and understand their fellow Jew.  Yoma 9b states that the Second Temple should not have fallen because Jews were occupying themselves with Torah, observing the mitzvot, and practicing charity."  However, the hatred was so strong and so prevalent that both from theological and historical perspectives, they brought the demise of the Second Temple. 

I would like to point something out.  First of all, the destruction of the First Temple took three sins.  And these aren't any three sins: these are the three for which, traditionally speaking, one would martyr himself rather than commit it (Sanhedrin 74a).  The Second Temple, on the other hand, took just one sin: שנאת חנם.  Again, the Jews of this time were immersed in Torah and mitzvot (Yoma 9a), but that didn't save them from the ugly fate that came with שנאת חנם. The fact that שנאת חנם is just as powerful as murder, idolatry, and sexual immorality combined shows the immense power of שנאת חנם.

Let's take that a step even further.  Not only do we feel the intensity in the fact that שנאת חנם is as powerful as three grave sins.  The length of the exile caused by each destruction is even more telling.  After the destruction of the First Temple, the Jews were without a Temple for 71 years.  But how about after the destruction of the Second Temple?  Wait a minute......I don't ever recall there being a Third Temple in our time.  As a matter of fact, we have been without a Temple for 1,960 years, and we are still counting.  As of date, the second exile has been going on nearly 28 times longer than the first!
 
Whether you take this Talmudic passage at face value or not, one thing should be clear--שנאת חנם can have tremendous effects on the world.  We have been in exile 28 times longer than our ancestors who experienced the first exile, and we still can't get it right.  This level of needless, baseless animosity is not healthy for the individual, and it's not healthy for the Jewish people.  We can take this lesson in many ways.  Love your neighbor (Leviticus 19:18). You shall not hate your brother in your heart (ibid 19:17). 

On a day of national mourning, one that is supposed to bring us in touch of national consciousness, we need to realize that this lesson applies to all Jews. When Jews, as a collective whole, can strip away the שנאת חנם, whether it would be with family quarrels, inter-denominational bickering, or even how some Jews feel about non-Jews, when we strip away baseless hatred from ourselves, we can become the "light unto nations," and when we do that, we can hasten the construction of the Third Temple and help bring about the Messianic redemption that we Jews have been desiring for so long.