Resilience and Hope on Tishah Be’av 

Rabbi Ayelet Cohen, Pearl Resnick Dean of The Rabbinical School and Dean of the Division of Religious Leadership, reflects on Tishah Be’av.

July 23, 2026

There is a lot to mourn right now, as American Jews. It often feels like the earth is shifting beneath our feet. Some of our greatest sources of pride and comfort that once felt immutable are at risk. Many of our ancestors fled to this country seeking the promise and protections of democracy. We are thinking more about our safety. We are frequently unsure what our place is in spaces that used to feel like home. The relationship between the US and Israel is uncertain. The foundations of democracy, in the US and in Israel, are being chipped away before our eyes. We are in pain and feeling the temperature rise around nearly every conversation, especially if it has to do with Israel. So much is broken.  

It would be hard to find a better metaphor for the experience of American Jews today, than the confluence of America’s Sesquicentennial falling within the three weeks leading up to Tishah Be’av. In this period, we consider the brokenness of the Jewish people, the ways internal divisions and external enemies have led to profound destruction in our history.   

Are these the worst times that the Jews have endured? Tishah Be’av would remind us that this is not even close. We have endured and survived profound challenges. From those experiences, we have strengthened our sense of responsibility to help others who are suffering. Emma Lazarus, best known for her poem “The New Colossus,” inscribed on the base of the Statue of Liberty, was born to a wealthy, fairly assimilated Sephardic Jewish New York family. By 1883, in her Epistle to the Hebrews, she was advocating for a stronger sense of Jewish peoplehood, informed by the legacy of Jewish exile, that must awaken a sense of kinship and responsibility to Jews suffering antisemitism in Europe. “When the life and property of a Jew in the uttermost provinces of the Caucuses are attacked, the dignity of a Jew in free America is humiliated. We who are prosperous and independent have not sufficient homogeneity to champion on the ground of a common creed, common stock, a common history, a common heritage of misfortune, the rights of the lowest and poorest Jew-peddler who flees, for life and liberty of thought, from Slavonic mobs. Until we are all free, we are none of us free.”  

The destruction of the Temple was a catastrophe. It represented the loss of a religious center, a cultural center, and an entire way of life. It led to exile, alienation, and the need to reinvent Judaism itself. Are we in a moment of such a profound shift as American Jews in our relationship with the American political landscape, in our relationship with Israel, that is as significant a sea change as the time after the destruction of the Temple?  

Two rabbinic texts from the post-destruction period can help us plot a way forward.  

A midrash from Lamentations Rabba is based on Lamentations 5:18, “For Mount Zion, which is desolate; foxes walk on it.” 

Rabban Gamliel, Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya, Rabbi Yehoshua, and Rabbi Akiva … were ascending to Jerusalem…When they arrived at the Temple Mount, they saw a fox emerging from the place of the Holy of Holies. They began weeping. Rabbi Akiva laughed. They said, ‘Akiva, you astonish us; we are weeping and you are laughing.’ He said, ‘Why are you weeping?’ They said, ‘Shall we not weep?… the verse ‘For Mount Zion, which is desolate; foxes walk on it,” has been fulfilled!’  He said: ‘This is why I am laughing.…If the words of Uriya have come true: ‘So said the Holy One of Hosts: Zion will be plowed like a field, and Jerusalem will be heaps’ (Jeremiah 26:18), the words of Zechariah will be realized: ‘So said the Holy One of hosts: Old men and old women will again sit in the squares of Jerusalem and the city squares will be filled with boys and girls playing.’ (Zechariah 8:4-5).  

I was joyful that the words of Uriya were realized, because ultimately the words of Zechariah are destined to be realized.’  

They said to him, ‘Akiva, you have comforted us.’ 

The pendulum of history finds us in a frightening place. It may yet get worse. It may take a long time, but it will eventually swing back, if we continue working towards justice, democracy, and repair. We cannot do this work, however, if we succumb to despair.  

A story from the Talmud, Bava Batra 60b, recalls: 

The sages teach that after the Temple’s destruction, some Jews embraced extreme asceticism. They stopped eating meat and drinking wine because those offerings could no longer be brought to the Temple. Rabbi Yehoshua challenged them: If they would no longer eat meat, should they also stop eating bread, since grain offerings had ceased? Perhaps they would live on fruit. Then should they stop eating fruit because first-fruit offerings had ceased? Perhaps they would drink water. Then should they stop drinking water because water libations had ceased? Eventually, they fell silent. 

Extreme grief can lead us toward unsustainable forms of self-denial. We cannot survive if we deny ourselves all joy. We cannot live governed entirely by fear, anger, and despair. But neither can we pretend that nothing has happened. 

Rabbi Yehoshua therefore teaches: ‘My children, come, and I will tell you. Not to mourn at all is impossible, as the Temple has been destroyed. But mourning excessively is not sustainable. Rather, the Sages said: A person may plaster her house, but she must leave a small amount unplastered.  A person may prepare what he needs for a meal but leaves out a small item…A woman adorns herself, but leaves out a small item.’

The lesson is profound. To live as a Jew is to move forward with eyes open to suffering, injustice, and loss. There are days when mourning is necessary. We must allow ourselves those days. And then we must rise and return to life. We must return to the work of healing, justice, and peace making.  

We live in a time of tremendous loss. Many of us carry not only grief for what has already happened but dread about what may yet come. If we refuse to experience loss, we will never experience joy.  And then we need to paint our homes, prepare our meals, and adorn ourselves. We must sustain ourselves so that we can continue the work before us, to channel our fear and anger into action and connection. Resisting despair is part of what it means to be in relationship with God. We cultivate hope not by ignoring suffering, but by seeing it clearly and continuing the work. 

The poet Adrienne Rich (from Dreams Before Waking, 1983) wrote : 

What would it mean to live in a city whose people were changing each other’s despair into hope? 

You yourself must change it. 

What would it feel like to know your country was changing? 

You yourself must change it. 

Though your life felt arduous, new, unmapped, and strange— 

What would it mean to stand on the first page of the edge of despair? 

Tishah Be’av is the beginning of the path towards the Days of Awe, when we dress ourselves and our sanctuaries in white, like a fresh page that has just been turned. We pray for a new beginning, giving voice to grief and loss while making room for hope. We remember and name the challenges we are experiencing and partner with God to renew our days for a better future.