As I sit down to write this article, we are in the midst of a unique time period in the Jewish calendar. A few short weeks ago, on Pesach, we celebrated the birth of our nation by recalling the period of enslavement and the ensuing salvation by God. We retold the story of a people so entrenched in Egyptian culture and society that only through a series of miraculous events could they be spared. We drank four cups of wine corresponding to the four stages of salvation, we ate the maror to recall the bitterness of our lives in Egypt, and we consumed matza to commemorate the food that our ancestors ate on the night they were saved 3,000 years ago. All of this was done with one goal in mind: remember the miracles and never forget.
Just a few days after we put away all of our Pesach dishes, we experienced Yom Hashoah. Each year we recall the stories of our parents, our grandparents, our extended families, and the families of friends who were annihilated simply because they were Jewish. I remember being in grade school when each year we listened to a different survivor tell us his or her story. Each story ended with one message: remember the persecution and tragedy and never forget.
Then comes Yom Hazikaron and Yom Ha’atzma’ut, two days that stand in contrast to one another. The former acknowledges all the men and women who sacrificed their lives for the State of Israel; the latter celebrates the place that each and every Jew calls home. These days embody one theme: remember the sacrifices made and the celebration of independence and never forget.
The experience of the seder makes it quite difficult to forget the miracles of the Exodus; the horrible memories of many of our grandparents in Germany and elsewhere in Europe serve as constant reminders of the Holocaust; and the stories of our friends who continue to serve in defense of Israel compel us to remember our homeland. To forget the recent events at Merkaz HaRav where eight students’ lives were cut short as they sat and learned late one evening would be unthinkable. And to consider a Jewish people without Israel is inconceivable.
But as we begin the Three Weeks dedicated to remembering what life was like when we had a Beit Hamikdash, a temple in Jerusalem, I don’t know how to remember and not to forget. I am faced with a difficult task of taking an abstract concept and making it practical, of bringing the intangible into the realm of reality. We are told to take these weeks and mourn, but how do we mourn something that we have no memory of, something that seems so distant and alien?
The problem is only strengthened as we acknowledge the state of Jews in the Diaspora. We are thriving. Day schools and supplementary schools have increasing enrollment, synagogues serve as icons of religious expression and community stability, and summer camps now comprise one of the fastest growing programs across all denominations of Judaism. But as we celebrate these successes, we face an even greater challenge in mourning the loss of the Temple. We have done such a great job growing that on Tisha B’Av we have trouble reliving the pain and anguish that accompanied the destruction of the Temple because we are so far removed from that painful reality.
The Beit Hamikdash was an architectural wonder with an elaborate design demanding recognition of its significance. When I try to understand the magnitude of its destruction, I seek the familiar and the common. I turn to September 11, the day when the international financial headquarters were attacked. But I realize that this is not the most appropriate analogy, for the Beit Hamikdash clearly was not merely a structure that represented financial stability and independence. So I begin to imagine what it would have been like if the World Trade Center, the White House, the Capitol, Congress, the Senate, the Pentagon, and every religious institution in America were all destroyed. It is only in that very moment, when I reflect on the significance of each of these buildings together, that I can begin to comprehend what the prophets were attempting to convey in their writings about the devastation that followed the loss of the Temple.
My understanding was deepened recently when I attended a rally outside the home of a recalcitrant husband who refused to give his wife a get. Most of the participants were college-aged men and women. I recognized many of the women from the Beit Midrash at Stern College. One came over to me with a look of pain and disgust. Her eyes were filling with tears; her head was beginning to fall forward. As she approached me, she began to speak in a voice that was barely audible. So I leaned in closer to hear her say, “How can I be a part of a religion that allows men to treat their wives like this?”
In that moment I could only embrace her and hope that she makes it through this tough time in her relationship to Judaism. But as I got on the subway to go back to my apartment, I continued to be haunted by the woman’s pain. Her struggle resonated with me. I too struggle with aspects of Judaism that seem so removed from our lives today. As a Modern Orthodox woman, I pride myself on balancing my Judaism with secular culture, reaping the benefits of both while remaining committed to halakha. So when I see individuals using the Jewish legal system in an abusive way, I question how a system that I have grown to love and respect could allow such atrocities to occur.
“The Beit Hamikdash… embodied the progression and evolution of halakha.”
And it is only in that moment that I can truly grasp the loss of the Beit Hamikdash. The Beit Hamikdash was not only a building that represented the financial, socioeconomic, military, and religious capital of our nation; it also embodied the progression and evolution of halakha. It is by no means a coincidence that the Sanhedrin sat to adjudicate cases in the chambers of the Beit Hamikdash. It is not without design that the Temple, which contains the ability to achieve a relationship with God, is also the epicenter of the Jewish legal system. The destruction of the physical structure of the Temple brought about the end of an era that allowed for an organic and natural flow of Jewish life in general, and of halakha in particular.
So, this year as I enter the period of mourning the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash, all that I will need to enable me to understand the magnitude of its loss is the name of one agunah, for that one name will remind me of the national tragedy that we suffer in our post-Beit Hamikdash era. And at that moment the message of Tisha B’Av is clear: remember and never forget. For if I forget, then I lose my ability to hope that, along with the rebuilding of the third Beit Hamikdash, will come change.