The Nine Days: Choosing Blessing Over Judgment
The Nine Days leading to Tisha B’Av are among the most emotionally complicated days of the Jewish year. They culminate in the ninth day of Av, traditionally understood as the saddest day on the Jewish calendar. On Tisha B’Av, we remember the destruction of the First Temple in Jerusalem in 586 BCE and the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE. Over time, our people gathered other catastrophes into this day as well, placing centuries of exile, persecution, and loss within one sacred container of grief.
Jewish history has, unfortunately, given us additional days of mourning. We observe Yom HaShoah. We observe Yom HaZikaron. October 7 has now entered our communal consciousness as another date of unbearable sorrow. But for many generations, Tisha B’Av was the day upon which the Jewish people placed almost all our grief.
The rabbis made a striking choice when they interpreted the destruction of Jerusalem. They certainly understood the geopolitical power of Rome. They knew that empires crush rebellions and that history is shaped by military, economic, and political forces. And yet, they taught that the Temple was destroyed because of sinat chinam—causeless hatred among Jews.
Perhaps that teaching is not intended as a literal historical explanation. But it is a profound moral one.
The rabbis looked at catastrophe and asked not only, “What was done to us?” but also, “What must we learn? How must we change?” Their answer was that we must become more careful with hatred, more attentive to one another, and more responsible for the ways we create or deepen division.
I have been thinking about this since returning from Israel, where I was blessed to spend restorative time learning Torah, reconnecting with beloved friends, and witnessing the remarkable work of UJA-Federation of New York’s Israel staff. I experienced Jerusalem not as a symbol of destruction, but as a living city: complicated, noisy, tender, sacred, and free.
On my final Shabbat, a large Israeli-American family filled the small hotel dining room where I was staying. They were joyful and raucous—and, truthfully, a little overwhelming. When I left breakfast, I felt some relief to return to quiet.
That evening, after Shabbat ended, I realized I did not have what I needed to make Havdalah. As I walked out of the hotel, I saw that same noisy family gathering outside. The Israeli members of the family fashioned makeshift kippot from folded napkins. They had wine, a candle, and a potted herb they would use for the spices.
I asked whether I might join them.
A young man I had never met immediately put his arm around me and said, “Of course.” In an instant, the family that had felt too loud became my family. They drew me into their circle, included me in every blessing, and offered me the fragrance of a leaf rubbed between their fingers. I was no longer an outsider watching their noise. I was home with them.
Moments later, I sat at a bus stop waiting to begin my journey to the airport. A woman resting nearby wished me shavua tov. She asked where I was going and, when I told her I was flying back to New York, she blessed me with a safe and good journey. A stranger sat with me because Shabbat had ended but the buses had not yet begun to run. Once again, connection appeared where I had expected only waiting.
Then, on the airplane, the man seated beside me began reciting the Shema loudly. Loudly. He repeated each word three times and continued slowly through all three paragraphs. I was tired. I had put on my eye mask and neck pillow. I was ready to sleep, and I considered asking him to pray more quietly.
Then I remembered: these are the Nine Days.
I was not feeling hatred, but I was feeling annoyance. And annoyance can become judgment. Judgment can become distance. Distance, if cultivated long enough, can become contempt.
So I paused to listen differently.
When would I again hear this particular prayer practice? What might I learn by allowing his devotion to remain uninterrupted? We were two free Jews flying from our ancient homeland—one praying with intensity, one trying to sleep, both carrying our stories.
The spiritual work of the Nine Days begins precisely here: in the small moments when another person is too loud, too unfamiliar, too inconvenient, or too close. We may not be able to repair every historic division, but we can choose not to enlarge the distance between us.
We can suspend judgment. We can become curious. We can turn irritation into blessing.
May these days teach us to hear one another more generously, especially when the sound is right in our ears. May we choose words and responses that create more peace, more love, and more room for one another. And may the Jerusalem whose destruction we mourn become, through our choices, a city—and a world—rebuilt through blessing.
