What Now? The Day After Tisha B’Av and Va’etchanan
Yesterday was Tisha B’Av.
We sat low, remembered destruction, fasted from water and words of comfort. The Temple burned again in our prayers, and in our bones. Not only once, but twice—and more. 586 BCE. 70 CE. And every wound since has somehow been braided into that ancient grief. Tisha B’Av is a Jewish gift, if such a word can be used. Not a gift we want, but one we need. A singular space in the calendar to pour the sadness into, so the rest of our days might remain livable. That’s what we try, at least.
But this year, the fire hasn’t gone out. And, as tradition teaches, the stones of the Temple continued to burn on the 10th of Av (Ta’anit 29a). The day after. Today. And it feels tragically fitting. The smoke hasn’t cleared.
Since Thursday, like many of you, I haven’t been able to look away from the faces of Evyatar David and Rom Braslavski. Two young Jewish men. Still held. 668 days. Their eyes haunted, their bodies gaunt. Not prisoners. Hostages. There is a difference. Language matters.
And the cruelty is not abstract. It’s not metaphor. It is systemic. Deliberate. It is inflicted by terrorists and broadcast to the world. These beloveds—our family—were stolen. Every moment they are not home is another injustice that cannot be made whole.
Witnessing their images was unbearable.
When the sun set last night, my beloved wife, Neshama, brought me a glass of water. The fast was over.
But I couldn’t drink.
How could I?
How dare I?
Rom and Evyatar cannot drink.
My brothers cannot drink.
Eventually, with trembling hands, I made the blessing:
Shehakol nihyeh bidvaro.
That all things come into being by God’s word.
But how can that be?
What kind of divine words result in the often cruel world we inhabit?
This week we read Parashat Va’etchanan, “and I begged.”
Moshe, our greatest teacher, pleads to enter the Land. He is told no. The door to that demand for justice is shut. And then—this is the part that should shock—Moshe doesn’t linger in the “why.” Somehow, and suddenly, he moves to “what now.” He doesn’t wallow in what cannot be. He sets his mind to the next task for the sake of his life’s mission: his people’s welfare.
We can always ask why.
But the sacred, necessary question is what now?
Moshe was denied the one thing he wanted most. And still—he led, he taught, he prepared the people for the journey he would not complete. That is a model of courage. That is a sacred grief, channeled into sacred responsibility.
What Now, Indeed?
I asked Neshama last night, glass still in hand: What do I do now?
She reminded me: We have work to do.
We need to take care of our bodies so we can do that work.
And so I drank.
And now I sit the day after.
Still aching. Still angry. Still ready.
668 days since October 7th.
The stones are still burning.
But we have water.
We have purpose.
We don’t know why the world is this way.
But we know why we are here.
To build. To protect. To amplify. To remember. To live.
So let us bless. Let us act.
Let us raise our trembling voices and call out for our beloveds,
for a world in desperate need of redemption.
Not because hope is easy.
But because it is ours.
Shehakol nihyeh bidvaro—may we, God’s Images, choose divine words and deeds that bring about a world worthy of those we mourn and those we pray to bring home.
Let’s do that.
Today.
Amen.
