Struggling to Feel

Growing up, I always had a hard time connecting to the Three Weeks, the Nine Days, and especially Tisha B’Av. The mourning. The restrictions. The heaviness. I tried to feel something — but couldn’t.

Part of it was that I didn’t fully understand what we were mourning. I mean, I grew up almost 2,000 years after the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. I never saw it. Never lived in a world with it. How could I grasp what we lost?

And part of it is how I’m wired. I’m future-focused. I believe we’re right on the edge of redemption. I can feel it. Taste it. And if we open our eyes, we can literally see it unfolding in front of us.

But the truth is: we all grew up in a world that seems to work just fine without the Beit HaMikdash.

We’re in exile — and it doesn’t even feel like exile anymore.

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A B’dieved World We Mistake for L’chatchila

We’re living in a b’dieved world — and calling it l’chatchila.

We’ve been in exile for so long that survival became strategy. We made the best of what we had. And in many ways, we succeeded. We built communities, shuls, yeshivot, mikvaot. We raised families. We learned Torah. We adapted.

We created a version of Jewish life that works. No korbanot. No prophecy. No revealed Divine Presence. But deep down, something’s missing. And not just something. Everything.

But we don’t feel it, because we were born into it. We were born into the b’dieved when it was already being called l’chatchila. We started believing this is how life is supposed to be.

When I was a kid, shuls had kinot booklets that were literally stapled photocopies, falling apart. I heard stories about how, years before I was born, people would bury those booklets after Tisha B’Av, praying they’d never need them again. They believed Mashiach was surely coming this year.

Today? We show up to shul with leather-bound Kinot. Multiple commentaries. Beautiful editions. Like we’re preparing for a permanent annual observance.

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What We Once Had — And Forgot to Miss

The Beit HaMikdash wasn’t just a building. It was the place where Heaven met Earth. You could feel Hashem’s presence. You could bring a korban and walk away transformed.

It was a life where Jews saw themselves as one soul. Where everyone walked to Yerushalayim together on Yom Tov. Where the center of Jewish life was clarity and kedusha — not confusion.

We daven every day for closeness with Hashem… but forget that with the Beit HaMikdash, that closeness was once clear, constant, and easy.

We lost the clarity. We lost the closeness. And slowly… we stopped noticing.

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Childhood Memory: Bar Mitzvah > Mashiach?

I must have been around 10 or 11 when a friend told me about Nostradamus — a 16th century astrologer and his predictions. He said maybe the world would end soon and maybe that’s when Mashiach would come.

All I could think was, “I hope it doesn’t happen before my Bar Mitzvah.”

I just wanted my party. Mashiach wasn’t a dream. He was a disruption.

And maybe that’s not just a kid thing. Maybe that’s a generation-wide confusion.

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If You Can’t Mourn the Destruction…

And this is where Chazal hit us with a line that cuts through the numbness:

“If you can’t mourn the destruction, mourn the fact that you can’t mourn.”

That line hits hard.

We’re so far removed from what was — and from what will be — that we don’t even feel the ache.
But maybe that numbness is the exile.
And recognizing it… is the beginning of redemption.

And the numbness isn’t just toward the Beit HaMikdash.
It’s toward each other.

When you stub your toe, your whole body reacts.
That’s what it should mean to be one nation.
But too often, we don’t feel each other’s pain —
and that, too, is exile.

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Why We Still Mourn

Throughout our Galut, we’ve suffered. 

Pogroms.
Holocaust.
War.
Antisemitism.

Exile never stopped hurting. Ad matai?

On Tisha B’Av, we mourn all the pain and loss we’ve experienced. But we also remember what Chazal say: Any generation in which the Beit HaMikdash is not rebuilt, it is as if that generation destroyed it.

The aveirot that caused the destruction have still not been fully repaired.

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Longing for What Will Be

When Mashiach comes, we will finally live in peace. Serve Hashem without distraction. No more wars — not with our enemies, and not with each other.

We don’t long for Mashiach because we’re tired of galut. We long for him because we’ve remembered what closeness feels like — and we can’t live without it.

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Remembering Yerushalayim Like We Remember Mitzrayim

One of the Kinot we say compares leaving Mitzrayim to being exiled from Yerushalayim. But look at the difference:

We have a mitzvah every day to remember Yetziat Mitzrayim. Once a year, we tell the full story at the Seder — with excitement, fun, joy. We keep it alive. We pass it on.

But the Churban? That’s different. It’s hard. Painful. We don’t pass it on the same way.

But that same Kinah ends with hope and anticipation of the joy of returning to Yerushalayim. Not just to what was, but to something even greater. The third and final Beit HaMikdash. The one that will never be destroyed.

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The Prison Analogy

Imagine a man is sentenced to life in prison. The moment the judge declares the sentence, his world collapses. Family, freedom, routine — gone. His entire life ripped away.

At first, every day is agony. The pain is raw. The walls feel like they’re closing in. But slowly, he adapts. He creates a routine. He learns, works out, gets a job. Builds a new version of life.

Eventually, he might even say he’s “doing okay.” Maybe even “living the life.”

But it’s still prison.

He made the best of it. But the life waiting for him outside? It’s not even close. It’s full. It’s free. It’s real.

Now imagine this: He never forgets the pain of losing his freedom. And he knows — one day soon — he’s getting out. And as the day approaches, everything changes. The letters from home go from “We miss you” to “We’re getting ready.” His family is preparing. The countdown has begun. The celebration is coming.

That’s us.

We’ve adapted to life in exile. We’ve built something remarkable. But it’s still exile.

We’re mourning the Beit HaMikdash. We’re mourning the Shechina. We’re mourning the power and clarity of a life with Hashem at the center.

And we know this isn’t forever.

Look around. Kibbutz galuyot is happening before our eyes. We’ve been davening for it every day — and now, half the Jewish world is already in Eretz Yisrael. We daven Boneh Yerushalayim — and everywhere you go in Israel, you see it. Cranes. Construction. The land being built.

The letters have arrived.
The family is preparing.
The doors are opening.
We’re almost home.

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What We Can Do Now — Rebuild With Intention

The Nine Days aren’t just about sadness.
They’re about sensitivity.

We may not have the Beit HaMikdash yet —
but we do have tools to start rebuilding:

Torah.
Every word we learn is another brick in the Beit HaMikdash.

Ahavat Chinam.
The destruction came from baseless hatred. The rebuilding begins with conscious love.

Every Shabbat Mevarchim, we say:
“Hashem redeemed us from slavery to freedom — may He redeem us again soon. Chaveirim kol Yisrael.”
We’re waiting for Hashem.
But Hashem is waiting for us.

So act like someone who believes redemption is near.

Make a Siyum.
Not to eat meat — but to build.
Not as a loophole — but as a declaration:
Torah matters. Unity matters. We are rebuilding.

Chazal say the Beit HaMikdash was destroyed because Torah wasn’t treated with kavod.
Not that we didn’t learn — but that we treated it like information, not revelation.

Rav Chaim Volozhin wrote:
Torah is Divrei Elokim Chaim.
Living words. Divine breath.

A Siyum done with joy, reverence, and connection is a tikkun.
And you don’t make a Siyum alone.
You invite others. You bring people in. You create unity.
That’s real Kavod Hatorah and Ahavat Chinam.

The story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza began with a meal that led to destruction.
Your table can be a meal that leads to redemption.

Gather people.
Share Torah.
Create connection.

These aren’t symbolic gestures.
They’re the foundation of a world worthy of the Shechina.

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So Close

We’re still mourning.
We’re still waiting.
But we are so, so close.

So when you cry this Tisha B’Av, let your tears be more than grief.
Let them be memory. Let them be longing.
Let them be belief.

Because those tears are watering something real.
They’re softening the ground for Geula.

Mashiach is at the doorstep.
The lights are flickering on.
And we’re almost home.