Shabbat Greetings
This Shabbat has a name. It is called Shabbat Chazon – the “Sabbath of Vision,” named for the opening words of Isaiah’s haunting vision (Isaiah 1:1-27): “Chazon Yeshayahu…” We read these words on the Shabbat before Tisha B’Av, the saddest day in the Jewish calendar, when we remember the destruction of both Temples and countless other tragedies that have shaped Jewish history.
At first, that seems like an odd pairing. Shabbat is our day of joy and peace. Tisha B’Av is our day of grief. One begins with Shalom Aleichem. The other begins with Eichah –“Alas! How?” Yet perhaps Judaism is teaching us something profound: hope is most meaningful when it is born in the presence of sorrow. (Walter Brueggemann)
That is exactly where the Book of Deuteronomy begins with Devarim (1:1-3:22). Moses stands at the edge of the Promised Land. He knows he will not cross the Jordan. This is not simply a farewell speech. It is a leader looking back honestly over forty years of triumphs and failures. One of the first words that catches our attention is “Eichah esa levadi…- “How can I bear your burdens, your disputes, and your complaints all by myself?” (1:12) The word eichah echoes through Jewish tradition. Isaiah cries, “Eichah haytah l’zonah…” – “How has the faithful city become like a harlot?” (Isaiah 1:21) Jeremiah begins the Book of Lamentations with the same word: “Eichah yashvah vadad…” – “How lonely sits the city…” (Lamentations 1:1)
The rabbis noticed this connection. Three different leaders. Three different generations. One painful question. How did we get here? But Judaism never asks eichah merely to assign blame. It asks eichah so that healing can begin. The rabbis taught that the Second Temple was destroyed because of sinat chinam – baseless hatred. Whether understood literally or as a moral lesson, their message remains strikingly relevant.
Societies rarely fall apart overnight. Relationships seldom collapse because of one disagreement. Communities are weakened little by little when suspicion replaces trust, when contempt replaces curiosity, when people stop believing they belong to one another. We hardly need ancient history to recognize that temptation. We live in an age of constant outrage. Social media rewards quick judgments more than careful listening. Political disagreements become personal. Even families sometimes avoid difficult conversations because they fear they cannot survive them.
The modern challenge of Tisha B’Av may not be the loss of a Temple made of stone. It is the danger of allowing our hearts to become temples with broken walls. Yet there is another voice in this week’s Torah portion.
Moses appoints judges and instructs them: “Hear your fellow citizens fairly… You shall not show partiality in judgment.”(1:17) Justice, Moses teaches, begins with listening. That instruction feels remarkably contemporary. Peace does not begin when everyone agrees. Peace begins when people are willing to hear one another with dignity.
The Hebrew word SHALOM does not simply mean the absence of conflict. It comes from the root shalem, meaning “whole” or “complete.” Real peace is not pretending differences do not exist. It is learning how to live together despite them. That work begins much closer to home than we often imagine.
Before we ask how to heal the world, perhaps Tisha B’Av asks: Can I forgive someone? Can I apologize? Can I choose curiosity over certainty? Can I spend more time building relationships than winning arguments? Can I become a source of peace in my own family, my workplace, my synagogue, my neighborhood? The rabbis imagined that every generation in which the Temple is not rebuilt should consider itself as though it contributed to its destruction. That is not meant to burden us with guilt. It is meant to empower us. If human choices helped bring destruction, then human choices can also bring healing.
Every act of kindness lays another stone. Every word spoken gently repairs another crack. Every moment of compassion strengthens another wall. As we enter the week of Tisha B’Av, we remember loss, not to become trapped in mourning, but to deepen our commitment to what endures. We remember that buildings can fall, but values can survive. We remember that hatred destroys, but love rebuilds. We remember that grief is part of our story, but never the final chapter.
The prophets never ended with destruction. They always pointed toward consolation. Next Shabbat, after Tisha B’Av, we will begin reading the seven Haftarot of comfort, beginning with Isaiah’s words: “Nachamu, nachamu ami”-“Comfort, comfort My people.” (Isaiah 40:1) Comfort comes after honesty. Hope comes after lament. Peace comes after we choose it.
May this Shabbat Chazon give us the vision to see not only what is broken in our world, but also what can still be repaired. May our compassion be deepen rather than our despair. And may each of us become builders of SHALOM, bringing a little more patience, kindness, justice, and understanding into our homes and communities.
SHABBAT SHALOM