Nachamu Ami

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Here we are, after three weeks of sadness, of mourning, of refraining from haircuts and music and weddings. There was no shopping, no shaving, no big trips, and for nine days there was no swimming, no clean clothes or wine and meat. We let go of earthly comforts to remind us of something that happened two thousand years ago.

We like to think that we have progressed. We are living in the most advanced era known to man. We have left the past in the past and are moving ahead rapidly. We are making and spending more money than ever before, living on a much higher standard than any of our predecessors.

Everyone has at least one car, and a nice, comfortable place to live with air conditioning. Some even have two places, a home in town and one in the country. We have more food than we need and clothing galore.

And then, we have the Three Weeks and the Nine Days to remind us of years gone by and to let us know that as much as we have, we have nothing. We are lacking. Empty. We are exiled far from home. In a strange land. And we look around - and in the mirror - and wonder: What are we lacking? What are we missing? Why are you telling me that my life is lacking?

Tisha B’Av is meant to provide the answer. The darkness, the Kinnos, the fasting, and the introspection are all to remind us that without the Bais Hamikdosh, we are empty. All our possessions can’t compensate for the loss. All the homes and neighborhoods and communities and shuls and schools and huge supermarkets cannot compensate for the loss.

Ever since we lost the Bais Hamikdosh and have been driven out of Eretz Yisroel, we have not been the same. Our people have not been the same and Yiddishkeit has not been the same. There’s been a giant hole of emptiness where there was once fulfillment, melancholy where there was joy, and vacuousness where there was holiness. We do our best, we try, we daven, and we study, but it is not the same.

Every year of golus takes us further away from home. Every year of golus finds us lacking even more. Every year of golus translates to more pain, more suffering, more tragedy. Less proper understanding of Torah, less kedusha. Every year we are in golus, we understand less and drift further from our base.

But, paradoxically, the further we stray, the closer the geulah is. We can only sink so low. We can only stray so far. For Klal Yisroel, there is never a point of no return. We begin to rise when we hit bottom.

That is why after chatzos on Tisha B’Av, we begin relaxing some of the strictures of the day. Because it was at chatzos that the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh was completed and the building was set on fire.

The Vilna Gaon taught that at the point that the building was totally razed and the prophecy of the posuk (Amos 5:2) which states, “Noflah lo sosif kum,” was realized, the foundations were being laid for the realization of the prophecy of the novi Zechariah (8:4-5), “Od yeishvu zekeinim uzekeinos b’rechovos Yerushalayim - Old men and women will yet sit on the streets of Yerushalayim…and the streets of the city will be filled, young boys and girls will be playing in her streets.”

Rav Dovid Cohen, in the recently published third volume of his sefer Mizmor L’Dovid, writes that this is the explanation of the oft-repeated Chazal that recounts of the time that Rabi Akiva and his colleagues were at the site upon which the Bais Hamikdosh had stood and saw a fox emerging from where the kodesh hakodoshim had stood.

Rabbon Gamliel, Rabi Yehoshua and Rabi Elozor ben Azaria began weeping and Rabi Akiva laughed.

“Why are you laughing?” they asked.

 “Why are you weeping?” he responded.

They told Rabi Akiva that they were crying because they saw the depraved situation of the holiest place on earth.

He responded, “That is why I am laughing. I see the realization of the nevuah of Uriah Hakohen that ‘Zion shall be plowed as a field,’ and just as that prophecy came to pass, so will the nevuah of the novi Zechariah, foretelling of the rejuvenation of Yerushalayim.”

“Akiva,” his friends reacted, “you have consoled us! Akiva, you have consoled us!”

Rav Cohen explains that Rabi Akiva was consoling them that since they had seen that the Bais Hamikdosh had been totally destroyed, they could understand that from there they could not sink to a lower level and from there the geulah would begin to sprout. The very reason they were crying was the reason he was happy.

So too, in our situation, every year of golus brings us closer to geulah. There is a limit to how much we can take. Each year that we are kept away from the Bais Hamikdosh forces us to slide further away from our core of kedusha. We have lost so many of our people to the throes of tumah and taavah which threaten to engulf us. The longer we are in golus, the more pervasive and difficult to overcome the challenges become.

Hakadosh Boruch Hu didn’t send us into golus to be totally destroyed, but rather as a means for us to improve ourselves and the world. When we have endured as much as our nation has suffered over the past century and recently, the rays of Moshiach begin shining and the golus has to end.

Thus, on the Shabbos following Tisha B’Av, joy returns as we read the comforting words of Yeshayahu Hanovi, “Nachamu nachamu ami.”

The novi speaks to us and says, “Nachamu, the sadness will soon end. Nachamu, the golus is almost over. Nachamu, accept consolation over the past. Nachamu, a bright new day is dawning.”

Since the Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed, our people have endured much tragedy. Tisha B’Av is the repository of 1,900 years of Jewish pain and suffering. It is the day on which we mourn for all that was and now isn’t, for all that was not and we wish was. It is the national Jewish day of mourning for all the sadness we have endured throughout the ages.

As we sat on the floor saying the Kinnos, we mourned the churban of the Botei Mikdosh, as well as the calamities that befell the Jewish communities of Europe one thousand years later during the First Crusade. We remembered the Jews who were ripped apart during the Inquisition, the gezeiros of Tach V’Tat, and the expulsion from Spain in 1492. We were reminded of the seforim that were burnt in Paris in 1242. As we said the Kinnos, we gained a new perspective of Jewish life and suffering. Kinah after Kinah filled us with so much sadness, it seems surreal that one people can bear so much.

We mourned the millions who were killed and maimed physically and mentally during the harrowing century that just ended.

And then we finished the Kinnos, chanted Eli Tziyon, raised ourselves from the floor, straightened out the chairs, and returned to our homes.

Last week was Shabbos Chazon and this week is Shabbos Nachamu. That’s the recurring cycle of our existence. We never sink into yi’ush, despair. We never give up hope. One day we can be deep down in the dumps and the next day we can be sitting on top of the world. History has shown that pain and tragedy give birth to nechamos.

Perhaps the minhag to say Kiddush Levanah for Chodesh Av on Motzoei Tisha B’Av codified by the Rama (Orach Chaim 551:8) can be seen as a message from which we can take consolation. Tisha B’Av commemorates all the tribulations that befell our people through the centuries. Recounting all the misery we have suffered can bring a Jew to melancholy and despair. To counteract that response, as soon as the fast is over, we venture outside and remind ourselves that Am Yisroel is compared to the levanah. Just as the moon shrinks and disappears from view only to regain its full size and completeness, so too Am Yisroel. Although its suffering causes it to diminish and wither, it revives and waxes strong and whole once again.

The same applies to life, personal and communal. There are ups and downs, times of great joy and also periods of intense sadness and grief.

This can also be the understanding of the posuk in this week’s parsha (4:30), which speaks of our time when it states, “Batzar lecha umetzaucha kol hadevorim ha’eileh b’achris hayomim, when you will experience many tzaros… in the period of the end of days, then you shall return to Hashem and follow his commandments…”

The Chofetz Chaim explained this posuk by referencing to the gemara (Sanhedrin 98a) which states that if you are in a generation in which there are many tzaros, that is an auspicious time for Moshiach to arrive.

Nachamu, look forward. Just over the horizon, a bright future awaits us. The Jews who have suffered throughout the ages for being Jewish, those who were burned at the stake, whose blood flowed at Beitar, and who were sent into exile by the Romans, the English, the French, and the Spanish will be returned to us.

All those who were tortured and killed, who were physically and mentally battered by the Germans, who were murdered in their prime, or who died as elderly, good, ehrliche Jews, all of them will gather together in Yerushalayim.

Shabbos Nachamu proclaims that the day Zechariah spoke about is not far off.

Nachamu, be consoled, for from sadness comes joy, from aveilus comes simcha, and from churban and golus come geulah.

Nachamu nachamu ami.

May it happen speedily in our day.

Homesick

 By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

The way we observe the restrictions of the nine-day period is fast becoming one of the great dichotomies of religious Jewish life. We know that this is a period of mourning. We know that we are not supposed to wear fresh garments. We know that there are no major simchos during this period, no music, no meat, nothing that would take our minds off of the great suffering our people have endured throughout our history. Yet, although we are well-intentioned and observe every halacha, kallah k’chamurah, when it comes to the Nine Days, the observances don’t always impact us. They become more of an inconvenience than a way to force us to introspect.

We are in a period in the Jewish year when we are instructed to conduct ourselves a certain way, reflecting the mourning we feel within. Chazal direct us not to eat meat or listen to music. However, it is possible to observe all the halachos and refrain from all forbidden activities, and yet not experience the mournful feeling that our actions are meant to induce.

During the Nine Days, we are meant to reflect on what we are lacking by being in golus.

Being in jail is dreadful. Speak to anyone who has been there and they will tell you that even life in the so-called “camp jails” is awful. Despite how they are depicted in the media, camp jails are very sad places. Every waking moment that a person is incarcerated, there is a reminder that he is not home.

The prisoners have a certain degree of freedom in their dormitory-like rooms and can walk about the campus unencumbered, but the knowledge that they are not home serves as a constant punishment.

Children go to sleep-away camp, where they are together with friends, all having a good time, yet they get homesick. Camp is great. It’s a lot of fun. Campers get to meet other youngsters from all over, swim, play ball, and go on exotic trips. But it’s not home. They get homesick and call up their parents crying that they want to come home.

Campers receive packages from home, letters and cards, and after being away for a whole week and a half, their parents sit in hours-long traffic to spend time with their children on visiting day.

The prisoners, and lehavdil the campers, are comforted in their longing by remembering home, thinking about home, and getting updates and packages from home. They know that they will soon be home. Camp lasts but a few weeks, and a stay in Otisville’s satellite camp style jail is also finite. The people who are there don’t have to do anything to be able to return home.

Golus is different. We are far from home and we don’t know for how much longer. Every day, we wait anew to be returned home. It is one of the fundamental beliefs of our faith. The Rambam writes (Hilchos Melochim 11:1) that anyone who does not believe that Moshiach will be sent to reestablish Malchus Bais Dovid, rebuild the Bais Hamikdosh and gather all of the nidchei Yisroel, and does not actually wait for his arrival, is a disbeliever in all of the nevi’im and in the Torah and Moshe Rabbeinu.

To be considered a maamin, a believer, it does not suffice to believe that Moshiach will come to redeem us someday. Rather, we must await his arrival every day. A person who doesn’t is considered a kofer, r”l.

Similarly, the Gemara (Shabbos 31a) states that when a person arrives in the Bais Din Shel Maaloh after 120 years, he is asked six questions. One of the questions is: “Tzipisa l’yeshuah? Did you anticipate Moshiach’s arrival?”

Part of expecting Moshiach to arrive every day is doing actions that will lead to his arrival. If we wait for him and want him and are anticipating his arrival, it would follow that we ourselves would be undertaking to do what Chazal teach will lead to the geulah and to encourage others to also act accordingly.

The Alter of Kelm explains this with a parable. A person was shouting, “Help! Help! My father is dying!” When people rushed to offer aid, they saw that the son was standing next to his father and choking him. They said to him, “Are you crazy? If you want your father to live, why are you choking him?”

The Alter would say that it is incongruous to mourn over the destruction of the Botei Mikdosh and then engage in actions that caused their destruction and prevent their reconstruction.

During these days of Av, we mourn. We remember the time when the Bais Hamikdosh stood in the center of Yerushalayim. Tisha B’Av is the repository of sadness and mourning for everything that has befallen us. We reflect on the tragedies that occurred to the Jews throughout the ages and are saddened as we recall them.

Tragedy and sadness are part of our essence. On Tisha B’Av, we shall remember the 45 kedoshim of Meron, the victims of the Stolin bleacher collapse, the victims of the Surfside building collapse, the six million victims of the Nazis, the hundreds of thousands brutally killed in pogroms, those murdered during the Crusader period and the Inquisition, the millions killed at the time of the churban, the Jews who were sold into slavery, and the people who were pillaged, beaten, robbed and thrown to the lions.

The torture afflicted upon our people is far greater than any other nation had to endure.Tisha B’Av is the day when we commemorate it all. But the halachos of the Nine Days are not simply laws that we outwardly observe. They are meant to influence our thoughts and feelings during this time. They are meant to lead us to teshuvah, to do what we must in order to merit being brought back home.

We know that the second Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed because sinas chinom was prevalent amongst Jews at that time (Yoma 9b). However, the Gemara in Maseches Sanhedrin (104b) points to the chet hameraglim as the cause of the destruction. It was on the 9th day of Av when the Jews in the desert cried for naught. Their “bechiyah shel chinom” echoes all these years, giving generation after generation many reasons to cry.

The meraglim viewed themselves as insects, feeling small and insignificant, as they traversed Eretz Yisroel and accepted the attitudes and views of others.

Upon their return, the meraglim shared their pessimistic report and analysis with the people. “Woe is to us,” they cried. “We are being led to a country that will destroy us.” They were insecure about their ability to merit Hashem’s blessing and protection. They feared that they wouldn’t be worthy of the promises made to them that they would inherit the Promised Land.

They didn’t perceive their own greatness. The nation that was chosen as the favorite from among all others feared that they had been cast aside. Lacking sufficient self-confidence, they were easily misled and taken in by the apocalyptic predictions of the meraglim.

Years later, during the period of Bayis Sheini, although the Jewish people were religiously committed, the rot at the root of the chet hameraglim was still present. Because the people were cynical, negative and pessimistic, they didn’t see the Jewish people as being worthy of Divine love. They hated each other because they didn’t appreciate the greatness inherent in every individual Jew. Insecure, they were blind to their own worth and, like the Jews at the time of the chet hameraglim, because they felt undeserving, they didn’t appreciate what they were given.

On Tisha B’Av, we sit on the floor as aveilim reciting Kinnos, recalling how good we had it, how close we were to Hashem, and the holiness and unity that were apparent in our lives. We bemoan the losses we suffered. We recognize through our tears how much Hashem loved us, and we proclaim that we know that He still loves us and that we are worthy of that love. By doing this, we repent for the sins of the meraglim and sinas chinom.

Many of our problems are rooted in the sin of low self-esteem, of not realizing each person’s potential for greatness. People give up on becoming great even before starting the process. They are easily knocked off course and lose motivation to excel, because they don’t believe enough in themselves. This is one of the ways the yeitzer hora causes us to live a hopeless, sad and sometimes self-hating life.

Chazal famously teach us that a generation that doesn’t merit the rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh is viewed as having had the Bais Hamikdosh destroyed in its time. The Sefas Emes explains that anyone who doesn’t believe that their actions can contribute to the building of the Bais Hamikdosh is accountable for its destruction. Those who don’t realize that they have the power to bring about the return of the Bais Hamikdosh have a part in its destruction.

To believe that we make no difference is part of the churban.

Our response to churban is to have faith in ourselves and know what we are, who we are, and what we can achieve.

This, says the Sefas Emes, is what’s meant by the brocha we recite in Birkas Hamazon referring to Hashem as the “bonei (presently building) berachamov Yerushalayim.” Rebuilding the Holy City is a steady, ongoing process. At any given moment, Hashem is rebuilding Yerushalayim. It is destructive to think that we can’t play a role in that process.

We lost the Bais Hamikdosh because of two related sins: bechiyah shel chinom, a futile cry, and sinas chinom, baseless hatred.

Realizing what a Jew represents is the greatest and most effective antidote to sinas chinom. Each of us carries so much power. We have to appreciate the mitzvos and ma’asim tovim of our friends and see their efforts with an ayin tovah.

Parshas Devorim, like the rest of the last seder of the Torah, is Moshe Rabbeinu’s farewell message to his people. This week’s parsha introduces us to the seder that describes the stay of the Bnei Yisroel in the midbar and ends with prophetic words concerning their entry into Eretz Yisroel.

The Jewish people went on to settle the land, erected the Mishkon in Shilo, built the Botei Mikdosh in Yerushalayim, and experienced two churbanos before being tragically evicted from the land promised to them. They were sent into golus, where we remain until this day.

Seder Devorim begins with Moshe Rabbeinu rebuking his people, because to merit geulah and entry into Eretz Yisroel, they had to engage in teshuvah. As the Rambam says (Hilchos Teshuvah 7:5), “Ein Yisroel nigolin ela beseshuvah,” Klal Yisroel will only be redeemed if we engage in proper and complete teshuvah.

Since Moshe loved his nation and selflessly wanted them to be able to enter the land that Hashem promised them, he admonished them with love and respect so that they would accept his tochacha. He spoke to them in a way that preserved their self-esteem (Rashi, Devorim 1:1; see also Rambam, Hilchos Teshuvah 4:2), because he knew that for people to accept mussar, it is usually advantageous to maintain their dignity.

Despite his keen understanding of their displeasing behavior, his speech was laced with love and respect. The role of parents, teachers and leaders when reproaching is to do so without destroying the person, while providing clarity about the correct path and conveying confidence for the future.

It is commonly noted that we read this parsha before Tisha B’Av because it contains Moshe’s admonition beginning with the word “Eicha,” which we lain in the same tune as Megillas Eicha on Tisha B’Av.

Perhaps we can suggest that another reason is to teach us how to give mussar and bring people home. It is not by demeaning them, yelling at them, or making them feel useless. It is by crafting the corrective message with sensitivity and infusing it with love, demonstrating that it emanates from a loving and intelligent heart.

Man is created with a heart and a brain, impulses and emotions, competing character traits, and a complicated psychology and thinking process. In his youth, a person requires parents and teachers to set him on the proper path and teach him Torah, responsibility and manners. He needs to be shown and taught how to think and how to act. Man has successes and failures as he goes through life. Due to his very nature, he often requires course corrections by real friends, family and those who care about him.

Torah and mitzvos help to battle the ever-present yeitzer hora, but every generation has unique temptations. The further we get from Har Sinai, the harder it is to deal with them. Just like Noach in his day - Chazal say, “Noach hayah tzorich sa’ad letomcho” - we all need help to make it and can’t always do it on our own.

To the degree that people recognize this, they can be sources of support and constructive chastisement.

We must act as Moshe did, admonishing in a way that could be accepted so that the people can merit exiting golus and entering the land of geulah.

In order to bring people to teshuvah, which will bring us to the ultimate geulah, we need to preach as Moshe preached, and rebuke and reprimand as he did.

Through his tochacha, Moshe demonstrated that he saw greatness in the people and worked to bring them to the level that would allow Hashem to end their golus and bring them to Eretz Yisroel. So too, in our day, if we are mochiach with love, treating others as brothers and sisters, and caring about them, we can help bring the nation out of golus and into geulah.

So much Jewish blood has been shed. So much heartache has been felt throughout the centuries in golus. On Tisha B’Av, we plaintively ask, “Lamah lanetzach tishkocheinu?” For how long will death endure? For how much longer will we linger in golus? We want to go home.

On Tisha B’Av, we say in unison, “Hashiveinu Hashem eilecha venoshuvah chadeish yomeinu k’kedem. Hashem, bring us back to You…”

People all over say and intone these words with love and inspiration. Hashem, we know that Your arms are opened wide, waiting to receive us. We know that we are worthy of Your embrace.

Bring us back. We want to go home.

Longing for Home

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

Golus. It is all we have ever known. We have been buffeted about, from country to country, sometimes treated better, sometimes treated worse. When things don’t go well, we pray for geulah, but when they do, we tend to forget that we are far from home. We settle in, acclimate, and adopt the mode of thinking, customs and culture of our hosts. We not only forget that we are in exile, we forget where we came from and what we are all about. When we try to remind people of that, we get blank stares, reflecting their concern that we are passé, outdated, outmoded, and so yesterday.

A story is told of an expectant woman who was given a wrenching choice: Either she lives or her child lives, but they could not both survive. She chose to allow the child to live and asked her husband to make sure that while bringing up the child, he would know how much his mother loved him, going so far as paying the ultimate price so that he could survive.

The father would always speak to his son about his mother and of her love for him. Finally, as the boy’s bar mitzvah approached, his father planned a large celebration. He asked one favor of the boy. “Tonight, as we celebrate your bar mitzvah, it is also the yahrtzeit of your mother. We will begin with Maariv and you will lead the davening. When you get to Kaddish at the end, please remember that your mother gave up her life for you. To let everyone know that you appreciate her devotion to you, recite it with much emotion.”

The boy davened Maariv, and at its conclusion, he rushed through the Kaddish, barely mouthing the words. The devastated father confronted him. The boy responded, “What do you want from me? All my life I have been hearing about this mother who loved me and gave me life. But I never met her, I never saw her, and I never knew her. How can you expect me to have feelings for her?”

That is our situation. The Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed some 2,000 years ago. We were chased out of Eretz Yisroel and have bounced around ever since. We have never known anything different. Life has its inevitable ups and downs, but since the Nazis tried to destroy us seventy-five years ago, those of us who ended up in Western countries have fared mostly well. Those whose fate had them in communist countries did not fare as well, and victims of Arab terror and Israel’s wars paid the ultimate price.

Anti-Semitism is picking up in this country and others. Last week, a rabbi was stabbed repeatedly in Boston, a Jew was beaten on Kings Highway in Brooklyn, and another was accosted on a London city bus. Known anti-Semites are promoted in universities and government. Jew-hating members of Congress are pretty open about their thoughts and opinions and face no recriminations for it. Last week, Congress voted down sending Israel support to help it restock on Iron Dome missiles following the recent Gaza war.

So, while we may have forgotten where we came from, we now have regular reminders that our hosts can turn on us at any time. Hashem has sent us several reminders over the past few years. Covid, followed by the tragedies in Meron, Stolin and Surfside, one after the other, should be enough to shake us up and let us know that not everything is well in paradise.

Yet, we continue on as if all is good, going about our routines without giving them much thought.

Golus succeeds when it claims the hearts and souls of its captives.

Something that Sholom Mordechai Rubashkin said when he was in jail illustrates our situation.

He related that as spring arrived and the weather outside began warming, he took the opportunity availed to him of being permitted to leave the jail building and breathe some fresh air. Although inmates are only permitted to walk on a track enclosed on all sides by electric wire, high fences and lookout points, the opportunity to feel the sunshine or a gentle breeze is a welcome break.

Sholom Mordechai recounted that during his initial years behind bars, when he would step outside, he was confronted by a flood of memories. As he strolled, he was reminded of walking to shul with his children, of spending time in his backyard, of Chol Hamoed trips with his wife and family, and of all the normal things we take for granted as we walk outside.

But as time wore on, he recounted, when he would leave the building and walk on the track, he no longer had those memories. As he walked along the guarded, fenced-in path, he thought of walking there the year before and the year prior to that.

Prison had become his reality; it became the world to him. The reality of the outside world faded over time.

We are in exile so long that we can forget where we belong and that we are essentially refugees, far from home. What we see is a mirage. Our senses become dulled as we suppress our longing for home.

We are now in the Bein Hametzorim period and are meant to focus on what we are lacking. The sadness we are meant to experience is not for the lack of music and abstaining from eating meat and swimming during the Nine Days. During these weeks, we are supposed to be suffering from a heightened awareness of our exile status.

The pain during this period should be that of our soul, knowing that we are seriously lacking and can be doing much better. At our core, we should know that we are destined to be in a holier place, living a more sublime existence. These days remind us that we don’t realize what we lack. They cry out in anguish for our callousness to our own plight.

The Three Weeks urge us to remember that it’s not the music that we lack, but life itself. Without the Bais Hamikdosh, we are weak, vulnerable and incomplete. These weeks remind us that we are in danger of becoming so deeply entrenched in golus that we don’t perceive the reality called geulah anymore.

The identity of the Jew in golus is bound up with the knowledge that he is a person without a proper home, lacking spirit and deficient in his very essence. We are a people haunted by sad memories and invigorated by hopeful visions of a bright future.

Walk into any Jewish home and look at the blank space opposite the front door. We are empty, we are lacking, and whatever we have will never replace the home we loved, the holiness we embodied, and the spirit that resided within us.

At every chupah, at the apex of the great joy, poignancy, optimism and elation, the baalei simcha stand surrounded by family and friends, the chosson and kallah enveloped by a cloud of euphoria and good wishes, and then there is a pause. It is quiet and the sound of the chosson breaking a glass is heard. For no matter how good things seem, no matter how happy and safe we appear to be, we must never forget that we are not home. We must remember that what we have is but a faux existence in a fictitious world, far from the real world of our destiny.

These months of Tammuz and Av remind us of our alien status. Between Shivah Assar B’Tammuz and Tisha B’Av is a time when our people have experienced much pain and anguish. During these three weeks, the Soton has the special ability to dominate over Klal Yisroel with the midas hadin (Vilna Gaon, Aderes Eliyohu, Devorim 20:19-20).

During this period, both Botei Mikdosh were destroyed, the first because the people at that time were on a low level, transgressing the halachos pertaining to avodah zorah, gilui arayos and shefichas domim. During the period of the second Bais Hamikdosh, the people were on a much higher level and were proficient in Torah study and punctilious in their observance of mitzvos. However, because they were guilty of sinas chinom, hating each other, the Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed, many of them were killed, and the remainder were driven into exile (see Yoma 9b).

The Yerushalmi adds that in every generation in which the Bais Hamikdosh is not rebuilt, it is as if those people destroyed it. Had they been worthy, it would have been rebuilt in their day, and since it wasn’t, it is sign from Heaven that the people have not repented yet from the sin that caused the destruction (Yerushalmi, Yoma 1a).

The Chofetz Chaim quotes these Gemaros and adds that, therefore, we must endeavor to wipe out the sins of lashon hara and sinas chinom from amongst us. He began writing and publishing his seforim to guide people on the importance of refraining from lashon hora, because it leads to sinas chinom and causes us to remain in golus.

Since the publication of the sefer Chofetz Chaim on Shemiras Halashon, our people have come very far. The laws of proper speech are studied across the world and many people are careful about how they speak. We are not there yet, apparently, but we are on the way. There is much awareness and interest in rectifying all manner of illicit speech.

But sinas chinom still lags behind. There are all types of machlokes among us and people hate each other for reasons they have long forgotten. If someone looks different, or davens differently, or comes from a different community, with a different rebbe or rosh yeshiva, or dresses differently, or goes to the wrong school, or thinks differently than we do, that person is despised, looked down at, excluded from “the club.”

If the person is a shomer Torah umitzvos, it makes no difference why we don’t like him. It is still sinas chinom. We tend to view sinas chinom as if it were a just a bad middah, something to aspire to rid ourselves of some day, when we get older, or retire, or have more time and patience. However, quite truthfully, it is sinas chinom that keeps us in golus and causes all the ills that we have, because all we suffer from is an outgrowth of the fact that we don’t have the Bais Hamikdosh. And if we do not have achdus, the Shechinah cannot return.

Achdus is a buzzword. Put it in a headline or an advertisement and it will get people to look. Use it in a speech and everyone will nod along. Oh, such a wonderful idea… But it’s a whole lot more than that. Achdus is what we need to get us where we need to be going. Achdus is our ticket out of the jail of golus. Achdus will cure what ails us. It brings us peace and harmony and makes the world a much better place in the short run. In the long run, it will bring the geulah. It will allow the Shechinah to return and Moshiach to come.

Achdus is our future if we make it our present.