We are currently in the final hours of **Tisha B'Av**, a day referred to as a festive occasion in potential, yet one marked by profound loss. It is remarkable to see that during these concluding hours, when there are many ways one could distract oneself, people are still coming out. They want to hear the word of God; they want to connect and feel a bond with what has been lost. In these remaining moments, we should strive to create a true yearning for what redemption actually means.
The Talmud refers to this day as a day on which tragedies were doubled. On this day, we lost the first **Beit HaMikdash** and the second **Beit HaMikdash**. The history of this day includes the fall of the city of **Betar**, where millions of inhabitants were conquered and destroyed, and the plowing of the city of **Yerushalayim**. Throughout the generations, so much pain and so many tragedies can be traced back to this day, which was marked by **HaKadosh Baruch Hu** from the very beginning to be a day of tears. Therefore, **Chazal** established that this day should be governed by specific laws: the laws of a fast, involving no eating or drinking, and the laws of mourning, which include the various other afflictions we observe. Generally, we do not find these physical laws to be our greatest challenge; we observe them faithfully. However, the work **Pele Yoetz** writes that while mourning the destruction of the Temple is something expressed through action and behavior, the action is not the primary element. Rather, a person must have a bitterly crying eye and a heart that is broken and downtrodden. He notes that we are often weak when it comes to this internal feeling. We lack those among us who truly know what we lost and what we are missing. On a day marked for tears, it is difficult for any of us to produce even a single tear.
We do not have to look back very far to find those who truly felt the destruction of the Temple. A close friend of mine, the grandson of **Hacham Sha'ul Katzin**, shared a memory from his youth. While staying at his grandfather’s house, he stayed up late and heard the sound of intense crying coming from the hallway. He went to investigate and saw his grandfather sitting on the floor, as he did every single night, reciting **Tikkun Chatzot** and weeping like a little baby. The boy was confused and asked his parents what was happening. they explained that this was simply what their grandfather did; every night, he cried for the loss of the Divine Presence. This was not someone from hundreds of years ago, and it was not even the day of the fast; it was a regular Tuesday during the year. There is no question that in previous generations, people possessed a true sensitivity to this loss. Our challenge is how we, in our current reality and world, can develop that same yearning. If we can develop even the tiniest feeling, the smallest sigh, or the slightest aspiration, it has a tremendous effect in heaven and could be the merit we need.
I would like to propose a novel insight that may seem surprising, but I believe it holds true: in our time, we can relate to the destruction of the Temple in a personal way that is perhaps more vivid than at any other time in Jewish history. This is not just because every tragedy is connected to the national destruction, but because if we realize what the destruction actually means, we can see that we are experiencing it on a personal level. There is a story brought down by Rabbi Eliyahu Lopian regarding **Plato**, the great philosopher, who was present with **Nebuchadnezzar** during the destruction of the Temple. As they walked through the streets leading to the **Har Abayit**, they saw **Yirmiyahu Hanavi** wrapped in sackcloth and ashes, wailing over the ruins. Plato approached him, but the prophet was so distraught he did not even notice him. Eventually, Plato gained his attention and asked how a man of his stature and wisdom could cry over sticks and stones. He acknowledged the building was magnificent and symbolic, but argued that wailing over a physical structure did not match the prophet's level of wisdom. His second question was that even if the building was unbelievable, one should not cry over the past but should instead move forward.
To understand the weight of these questions, we must realize that the philosophers of that time, such as **Aristotle**, possessed a depth of wisdom that ancient sources, such as the **Kovetz Ma'amarim**, suggest was close to the level of prophets. The **Rambam** also writes about the profound depth of these thinkers. **Yirmiyahu Hanavi** responded to Plato’s first question by asking the philosopher to share the deepest questions he had been unable to solve. One by one, the prophet answered them effortlessly. Plato was stunned, realizing he was standing before someone of superhuman intellect. The prophet then told him that all of this wisdom and clarity, the ability to answer questions Plato had spent a lifetime pondering, came from those very "sticks and stones" he was mourning. As for the second question—why he cried over the past—the prophet told him that this is something only a Jew could understand.
What was the prophet telling him? We often think of the Temple as merely a holy place we visited to grow spiritually, but we must redefine our understanding. The **Sforno** and the **Ramban** write that according to the original plan for the world, there was never supposed to be a physical **Mishkan** or Temple. When God created man, the human being was intended to be the Tabernacle. We were meant to hold the Divine Presence within ourselves. The anatomy of a human being corresponds to the blueprint of the Tabernacle: our skin and flesh correspond to the coverings; the mind, which is the seat of the light of the intellect and the light of the Torah, corresponds to the seven-branched candelabra; the lungs spreading around the heart correspond to the cherubim spreading their wings; and the heart is the **Kodesh HaKodeshim**, the center of it all. The **Nefesh HaChaim** explains that the heart of a human being is the middle of his body and is connected to everything, which is why the Talmud says that when a person prays, they should consider their heart as if it were the Holy of Holies. The patriarchs, our **Avot**, successfully embodied the Divine Presence in this way.
However, after the Jewish people committed the Sin of the Golden Calf, they were no longer worthy to be the sole carriers of the Divine Presence. To allow the Divine Presence to dwell among us, a physical structure was required. Yet, it is a mistake to think the goal ended with the building. The ultimate purpose of the Tabernacle and the Temple was to allow us to draw that holiness back into ourselves. The verse says, "Make for me a sanctuary and I will dwell among them." It does not say "in it," but "in them." The Divine Presence dwelt in the sanctuary so that it could eventually dwell within the people. The **Nefesh HaChaim** emphasizes that one should never think the external building was the ultimate goal; rather, it was a hint that we should become that sanctuary ourselves.
Imagine a person living during the time of the Temple who draws that Divine Presence into himself. His mind is lit with clarity, and his heart is filled with God. The happiness and pleasantness of having the Divine Presence within is a joy we cannot fathom. Our current moments of inspiration or calm are not even a trillionth of what our emotional and mental experience is supposed to be. This is what the prophet told Plato: his clarity and wisdom were drawn from that center point of holiness. Our emotional and mental world today is like a tiny toy motor compared to a rocket ship heading for the moon. We live in a world of physical convenience and amenities, but on the inside, our hearts and minds are often in a state of chaos.
In my own experience, I have seen a world that most people do not see—the suffering behind closed doors. There are people who look perfectly fine in the street or in the synagogue, but in their internal world, they are experiencing a literal destruction. They face endless anxiety, obsessive thoughts, and mental turmoil. Their own minds, which were meant to be a candelabra of light, have become places of torture. I have heard so many people express feelings of hopelessness and helplessness. Behind closed doors, the mental and emotional state of the Jewish people is perhaps at its lowest point. I remember a young boy I tutored who was pure and innocent, whose face would light up like a candelabra when he heard a Torah insight. I watched as his parents' divorce unfolded, and I witnessed a personal destruction of the Temple. That innocent heart turned cold and depressed; those eyes that once shone became filled with shame. This is not an isolated case. There are so many whose hearts are being broken in ways we would not wish on our enemies. Is this not the destruction of the Temple?
If the ultimate purpose of the Temple was to be the sanctuary within us, and our internal lives are falling apart, then we are experiencing the destruction in a more relatable way than ever before. We must realize that this is not how life was meant to be. We cannot simply move on and say that everything is fine. We are meant to be like the prophet, drawing infinite wisdom and life from the center point of holiness. If we are being attacked in our internality, perhaps that is a revelation that our service and work must be focused there. We have done a good job on the outside; our communities and houses look beautiful. But it is time to look inside ourselves and repair our hearts, our character traits, and our minds. This work is difficult because it is hidden. No one knows if it is lacking, so there is often no external pressure to fix it. We can continue to look good and speak well while avoiding the internal reality.
Consider a parable of a family that buys a beautiful couch. Over the years, it becomes stained and worn by children and daily life. The children beg for a new one, but the father is stubborn, insisting it is an antique. However, when the daughter reaches the age of matchmaking and a suitor is coming to the house, the father's perspective changes instantly. When the groom is coming, he is ready to make the necessary changes. We are in a similar position. There is no doubt that God is coming very soon. When the Temple is rebuilt, the Divine Presence will not just be in a building; it will come into us. We must do the work now to ensure that when the Groom arrives, our internal Holy of Holies—our hearts and minds—are ready.
There was a famous American journalist named Dorothy Thompson who, in the early 1900s, interviewed the most influential people in the world. On her list was the **Chofetz Chaim**. She traveled all the way to the small town of **Radin** and was permitted to look through a crack in the door for fifteen minutes. She watched him sitting at a simple wooden table, bent over his books. When she finished, she told her entourage, "I have just seen the Jewish God." The **Chofetz Chaim** lived less than ninety years ago. If a secular journalist could see that level of divinity in him, imagine what she would have said if she saw the **Gaon Mivilna**, **Maran Bet Yosef**, the **Rambam**, or the prophets. But the real question is: what would she say when she sees us when the Temple is rebuilt and our hearts are the Holy of Holies they were meant to be? What kind of life will that be? We must recognize what we are destined to be. If we recognize it and yearn for it, that yearning and aspiration will be the bricks that build the Temple. May we merit to see the consolation of Zion and the rebuilding of the Temple speedily in our days. Amen.