When the Rubble Is Really the Beginning of the Future
Chassidim, and the Rebbes of Chabad in particular, have long been accused of a certain naivete.
Everything is good. Everything will be good. Always positive, always optimistic, always finding light in the darkest places.
To some people, this can be frustrating. Is it genuine faith, or simply denial? Is Chassidic optimism profound, or perhaps a little silly?
This past Shabbat would appear to be a case in point.
The final Shabbat of the Three Weeks, the national period of mourning for the destruction of the Temples in Jerusalem, immediately precedes Tisha B’Av, the day on which both Temples were destroyed, and so many tragedies befell the Jewish people. It is known as Shabbat Chazon, the “Shabbat of Vision,” taking its name from the opening word of the Haftarah: Chazon Yeshayahu – “The vision of Isaiah.”
But Isaiah’s vision is hardly encouraging. It is a dark and ominous warning about the consequences of the Jewish people’s behavior and the destruction that will follow.
And yet, the Chassidic masters teach that it is called the Shabbat of Vision because, on this Shabbat, the soul of every Jew is shown a vision of the future Temple, the coming of Mashiach, and the rebuilding of Jerusalem.
Come on.
The prophet is describing destruction, and Chassidim see a magnificent new Temple? Talk about turning something on its head. Talk about denial.
But the Rebbe explains that this approach is neither naive nor detached from reality. On the contrary, it reflects a deeper and more complete understanding of reality.
The Talmud tells of Rabbi Akiva and several of his great colleagues walking toward Jerusalem after the destruction of the Second Temple. When they came within sight of the city, they tore their garments in mourning. As they reached the Temple Mount, they saw a fox emerging from the place where the Holy of Holies had once stood.
The other sages began to cry.
Rabbi Akiva began to laugh.
“How can you laugh?” they asked him. “The holiest place in the world lies in ruins, and wild animals wander through it.”
Rabbi Akiva explained that this was precisely why he was laughing. The prophets had foretold that “Zion will be plowed like a field.” Now that he saw those painful words fulfilled before his eyes, he knew with absolute certainty that the prophets’ promises of redemption and a rebuilt Jerusalem would also be fulfilled.
Rabbi Akiva did not deny the destruction.
He had torn his garments together with everyone else. But then he laughed. He mourned what had been lost while seeing what would ultimately grow from the ruins.
That is the significance of the prophet’s words: “Zion will be plowed like a field.”
Plowing is destruction. The earth is ripped open. What was smooth and settled becomes torn, overturned, and messy. But nobody plows a field in order to destroy it. We plow because something new is meant to grow.
Chassidic optimism is not the refusal to see darkness. It is the refusal to believe that darkness is the final meaning of what we see.
Life is messy, and sometimes terribly painful. Old structures must occasionally come down, but good things are often lost along with what needs to disappear. Familiarity, stability, relationships, and precious memories can all be caught in the destruction.
We must honor that pain. Faith does not ask us to pretend that it does not hurt.
But faith asks us to look more deeply.
Across the world, old assumptions about security, leadership, economic stability, and even truth itself are being torn apart. Wars expose the fragility of the international order. Political upheaval weakens trust in institutions. New technologies are dismantling familiar ways of working, communicating, and understanding what is real.
Some of what is falling badly needed to fall: complacency, hypocrisy, corruption, and false certainty. But valuable things are being carried down with it as well: stability, trust, livelihoods, and the feeling that the ground beneath us is solid.
We are living through the plowing.
And no one who stands inside a freshly plowed field would describe it as beautiful. But someone who understands farming knows that the field is not being destroyed. It is being prepared.
Over the past few days, I have felt this very personally while watching the demolition at our synagogue property at 38 Field Point Road (https://newchabadshul.org/
It is messy. Walls are coming down. The familiar building is disappearing. It takes a great deal of effort – much of it very messy – simply to reach this stage.
And yet, the scene feels perfect.
Because this is not random destruction. There is a plan behind it. Every wall that comes down makes room for something greater to rise. Looking at the demolition, we can already see the beautiful synagogue that will stand there, G-d willing, for generations to come.
That is the vision of Shabbat Chazon.
We do not look away from difficult moments in life. We look directly at them. We cry for what has been lost, and we honor the pain of the present.
But like Rabbi Akiva, we also allow ourselves to smile.
Because beyond the destruction, something greater is being built. And within every painful moment, both personally and across the world, lies a vision of a brighter and more beautiful future.
We need only learn how to “see” it.
