On Tisha B’Av we reflect upon destruction, upon trauma, upon loss.
While the rest of the world is light-headedly embracing the frivolity of summer, we cast our fishing rods deep into the sea of memory, revisiting the archetype of destruction at the bottom of our psyche.
Why do we do this – have the lessons of Jewish history not already sufficiently traumatised us, does not its apocalyptic mood hound us all too heavily as we try to experience the simple joy of life?
There is truth to that, but we mourn today not because we need more trauma, but because we have yet to complete what Freud called our ‘mourning work’.
To mourn is to register loss, to relinquish something, to know that we will never again be fully complete. We are ejected from the womb, weaned from the breast, usurped in sibling rivalry and banished from the eden of childhood innocence: our entry into the world is along a boulevard of ruin and loss.
So much is promised, and so much is taken away. we are left longing, painfully so, pining to return to these earlier states, to the wholeness and fullness which defined them.
We might ask a different question: is the ‘mourning work’ ever complete, can we ever fully come to terms with such harrowing loss, can the vision of wholeness ever be totally abandoned?
In one sense, it surely cannot.
The personality that we build is in response to these losses, the cultures we erect serve to let us cope with the pain. We work with the pain, we harness it, but we do not fully leave it behind.
It is a curious paradox, but the personality which is built upon hiding the pain, upon denying it, that will be the personality which promotes the persistence of pain, which gives it a constant source of life. There is no elixir of eternal life like suppression; denial is the surest way to keep something vital and creative.
The personality or culture which acknowledges loss, which encourages consciousness of our incompleteness, of our desire to return to a greater sense of fullness, this is the personality which will be truly strong, which will be resilient, creative, sensitive and generous. Pain, anger and resentment are slightly defused, it’s harder for them to get going when the loss is in full view.
When the sages visited the ruins of the temple, they saw foxes emerging from the Holy of Holies. The source of life had become a playground for vermin, integrity and holiness supplanted by sly cunning.
The sages wept, but Rabbi Akiva laughed. He had visited the site of trauma, the loss was in plain view, yet he did not experience it as paralysing or debilitating.
When the rabbis asked him to explain himself he responded by quoting the prophecies of Uriah and Zekharia. Uriah prophecies desolation, whereas Zekahria has a vision of rebirth and regeneration. Rabbi Akiva emphasised that the two are intimately connected, that the existence of the former is what safeguards and ensures the latter.
Rabbi Akiva was embedded within the prophetic framework of loss, longing and hope, and the interplay between these was central to his vision. By keeping one eye on the loss, he is more able to see the hope, and, perhaps more importantly, to connect with the joy.
Megillat Eikha ends on a strange note. The whole book is a stage by stage dealing with loss, going through shock, anger, existential turmoil, soul searching and eventually, in the final chapter, crying forth in prayer. At the end of that last chapter, there is an urgent plea:
‘Return us to you oh God, and we will return; our days will be made new, like they were before’
The ultimate response to the loss here is return, a consciousness of return, an incorporation of the desire for greater completeness. This neither denies nor suppresses loss, it rather tolerates it respectfully as one of our core aspirations.
It also hints at the impossibility of returning to the past, it will always be a ‘new’ past, a past re-acquired through creativity.
In the haftara of the day the onus is less on God and more on the people:
‘Seek the Divine where It might be found, call out to It when you sense Its closeness.’
Again, the yearning is placed at the centre, it is a creative response to the ravages of suffering. It is a given that we will never entirely merge with the Divine, but it is also thought that it will be better to have a healthy object or address for our longing. It should be one which will inspire us in the ways of truth, justice and love; not one which will fetishize specific aspects of an irretrievable past.
We yearn for the unreachable, but somehow that allows us to expand, to stretch, to grow. It enlivens us, filling our veins with oxygen. It doesn’t cripple us with brooding and melancholia, doesn’t close us back in upon ourselves. It doesn’t limit and stifle us, forcing us to live in a world of artificially limited emotional bandwidth.
The lovers of the Song of Songs are never fulfilled, and it was again Rabbi Akiva who insisted that this message was the Holy of Holies, that it was the ultimate religious lesson. There is pining at the centre; unity for him only came in death.
Jewish life is littered with references to the loss of the temple, when we marry, when we build a home, the psalms we recite before grace after meals. Shabbat too marks something of a loss, the cessation of the Divine hand in creation, the awareness that we have transitioned to maturity, that we have left the secure canopy that our parents provided for us.
Tisha B’Av is really the first day of Ellul, the beginning of the trajectory of intensified return which propels us through to the High Holydays. As our seeking leads to scrutinising our personalities, we dedicate ever more creative energy to the memory of loss. From destruction we create, from the horror we re-rekindle desire.
May this be the start of a year of profound rebirth, and may we be spared from further trauma whilst engaged in this task.