Weekly Dvar Torah: The Power of Mourning, A People That Refuses to Forget

Napoleon Bonaparte, the emperor of France, was known for disguising himself to mingle with his subjects and better understand their lives and opinions. On one such journey, he arrived in a small village and was puzzled to find the streets empty and all shops shuttered. Curious, he asked a passerby where everyone had gone. “They are in the synagogue,” came the reply.

Intrigued, Napoleon entered the packed synagogue and was struck by the sight: people sitting on the floor, crying and mourning. “What happened?” he asked. The response was simple yet profound: “Our Temple was destroyed.”

“Can I help?” Napoleon inquired, moved by their grief.

“Sir,” they said, “this happened over 1700 years ago in Jerusalem.”

Astonished, Napoleon exclaimed, “A people who still mourn their Temple after 1700 years will surely live to see it rebuilt.”

This story offers deep insight into the Jewish spirit. It reveals the unique relationship between the Jewish people and G-d, whose house was destroyed and whose children were exiled—but who never abandoned them. The power of mourning is not about clinging to sorrow; it’s about never letting go of hope. The destruction of the Temple wasn’t merely a historical event. It was a Divine act that allowed for G-d’s presence to be hidden, not removed, as He went into exile with His people.

Exile is the concealment of G-dliness. It’s a distortion so deep that it tries to convince the world of G-d’s nonexistence. Yet the Jewish people never accepted this deception. For over 1950 years, they have mourned, yearned, and believed. Because they know G-d is with them, even in hiding. This belief is their power. They march through the flames singing “Ani Maamin” – “I believe.”

The pain is real, but so is the promise. As the Prophet Isaiah declared, “On that day, you will say: ‘I thank You, Hashem, for being angry with me; Your wrath is turned away, and You have comforted me.'” We will thank G-d not because the suffering was pleasant, but because, with the coming of Moshiach, we will finally understand why it was necessary.

The Rebbe once wrote to Israeli President Ben-Tzvi, “From the time I was a child … I formed in my mind a vision … of a redemption that will explain the suffering, decrees and massacres of exile.”

The Frierdiker Rebbe, after being released from Soviet prison, famously said that no price would make him relive the suffering—yet for no price would he sell the experience either. This paradox captures the Jewish experience of Golus. We endure it, we resist it, and ultimately, we will treasure what it gave us: the deepest bond with G-d Himself.

A humorous yet thought-provoking story underscores this dichotomy. A Chassid was once seen in a joyous mood on Tisha B’Av. “How can you be happy on the saddest day of the year?” they asked. “To mourn on Tisha B’Av is a Rabbinic command,” he replied, “but to be joyous is a Torah command. Torah overrides Rabbinic law.”

Some may call him a Meshuginer, but his paradoxical behavior reflects the duality of Jewish life: joy in mourning, hope in despair, clarity in darkness. Our calendar is filled with fasts and feasts, destruction and rebuilding, death and resurrection.

This year, Tisha B’Av falls on Sunday. We fast as we traditionally do, mourning the destruction of the Temple and the pain of exile. Yet even as we fast, we are mindful of the imminent redemption, and the hope that the fast may be transformed into a day of celebration. And we prepare for the fast with a festive Shabbos meal—eating, singing, and celebrating in honor of Shabbos, even as our hearts are focused on what is to come. This contrast highlights the strength of the Jewish soul: to honor joy and holiness, even on the threshold of sorrow. With the full awareness and hope that the fast may be transformed into a day of celebration.

We demand of G-d: “Ad Mosai” – “Until when?” Enough exile. Enough tears. Enough Golus. It is time.

And yet, in a statement that seems baffling, the Rebbe Rashab once said, “When Moshiach comes, we will yearn for the days of Golus.”

How could this be? How can we yearn for suffering, for persecution, for displacement, for exile?

Because in the days of Moshiach, we will finally see clearly what our actions in Golus accomplished. When we perform Mitzvos in darkness, when we keep Shabbos under threat, when we teach Torah at risk of death, we aren’t just performing rituals—we are reaching the very essence of G-d.

When Moshiach comes, all G-dly light will be revealed. We will study Torah without interruption, keep Mitzvos with joy, and bask in Divine presence. But the power to generate new light, to reach deeper than ever before, will be over. The time for action will be gone.

That is why we will yearn for Golus. Because in Golus, every mitzvah is an act of heroism. Every moment of faith is a rebellion against darkness. Every step forward is a cosmic victory.

The Rebbe explains that Moshiach’s greatness will be in his humility. He will be capable of teaching Torah even to the Patriarchs and Moshe Rabbeinu, yet he will teach the simplest folk as well. He will understand that greatness is not in knowledge alone, but in humility, in self-nullification, in faith.

This is why the simple Jew, the one who lights Shabbos candles without knowing the Kabbalistic reasons, the one who wraps Tefillin in secret, the one who gives a coin to tzedakah with trembling hands—this Jew is the cornerstone of redemption.

The Talmud debates: Is study greater, or is action greater? Rabbi Akiva says study, for it leads to action. Rabbi Tarfon says action, for it reflects subjugation to G-d. In the end, both are needed. But in the times of Moshiach, action will shine. Because it reflects selflessness. It reflects loyalty. It reflects love.

The daily teaching of Hayom Yom (3 Menachem Av) remind us: now is the time. Now, in Golus, is the opportunity. Once Moshiach comes, the test will be over. The struggle will end. And we will look back and wonder: did I do enough?

This is the power of mourning. Not to wallow in sadness, but to energize hope. To recognize that even in exile, even in the darkest night, the soul of the Jew burns bright.

So we cry for the past, but we smile for the future.

We sit on the floor, but we rise with resolve.

We mourn, but we believe.

And we know: the people who never forgot Jerusalem will surely return there.

May it be now.

Have a Shabbos of Yearning and Redemption,
Gut Shabbos

Rabbi Yosef Katzman