As we approach Tisha B’av, our hearts turn to the many layers of sorrow etched into this day: the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash, the long and bitter exile, the expulsions, the pogroms, the hatred that never ceases. But as overwhelming as Jewish suffering has been throughout the generations, Chazal have taught us that there is a level of mourning even deeper, even more refined: the pain of the Shechinah.
Let us begin by returning to the events that took place in the Midbar, when the Meraglim returned from Eretz Yisrael with a slanderous report. In response, Hashem said, “I will destroy them,” and once again, Moshe Rabbeinu stood in the breach and pleaded on behalf of the people.
But this time, Moshe Rabbeinu did something extraordinary. He invoked nine of the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy, and then, he presented an argument not based on compassion, not based on justice, and not based on the people’s worthiness. He rather said: “If You wipe them out, the nations will say: ‘Hashem lacked the ability to bring this people to the land He promised, so He killed them in the wilderness.’”
And Hashem replied: “Salachti kidvarecha—I have forgiven, according to your words.”
Rashi comments: Hashem forgave—not because of mercy, not because of the people—but because of the argument Moshe made. Moshe appealed to one thing alone: the honor of Hashem. He said, in effect, “Ribono Shel Olam, it’s not about us. It’s about You.”
From this moment in Sefer Bamidbar we learn something profound. When our backs are against the wall, when our merits are insufficient and our pleas go unheard, there is one type of tefillah that breaks through: L’maan Shimcha Ha’gadol. For the sake of Your great Name.
Rav Chaim Volozhin (Nefesh HaChaim 2:11) writes that this is not merely the most effective tefillah; it is the only true tefillah. How can we ask Hashem to heal us, save us, or spare us, when everything He does is for our good? Who are we to request a change in the Divine plan?
The answer, says Rav Chaim, is simple: we are not davening for ourselves. We are davening for Hashem. Imo Anochi b’tzarah, Hashem suffers with us. Every ounce of Jewish pain is also Divine pain. And therefore, when we say, “Hashem, please end this suffering,” we are not pleading for ourselves. We are saying: “It’s not good for You. We want to relieve Your pain.”
When a single Jew is in pain, it is a Chillul Hashem. When Klal Yisrael suffers in exile, when the world mocks us, hates us, degrades the Torah, ridicules our ideals, and silences our voice, it is not just a tragedy for us. It is a defilement of Hashem’s honor. That, above all, must move us to tears.
This is the level described by the Tanna D’vei Eliyahu (Perek 4): “Fortunate is the one who mourns for the honor of Hashem, who grieves for the pain of Klal Yisrael, who longs and yearns and pines for the rebuilding of Yerushalayim and the return of Hashem’s glory.” Such a person, the Midrash says, is immediately enveloped in Ruach HaKodesh.
It is not enough to cry for our own pain. We must cry for His. We must cry that the Shechinah is in exile, that the King of Kings has no palace, that the Jewish people, His beloved children, are scorned in His world.
This is the essence of Tzar HaShechinah. And it is the highest form of mourning.
My dear friend, Rav Moshe Morgenstern, once shared a powerful story with me about the Klausenberger Rebbe zt”l. Every time the Rebbe would reach the pasuk in Tehillim (23:4), “Gam ki eilech b’gei tzalmaves lo ira ra ki Atah imadi—Even when I walk in the valley of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me,” he would break down in tears.
Most of us find comfort in these words. Hashem is with me, and I’m not alone. But the Klausenberger Rebbe, who endured the horrors of the Holocaust, heard something else. He would say: “If I’m walking in the valley of death, I accept that I deserve it. I accept that it is for my kaparah (atonement). But what breaks me is that You, Ribono Shel Olam, are with me in that place. You’re suffering too. That, I cannot bear.”
That is the ultimate cry of Tisha B’av.
This is how we end the galus. Not by demanding comfort, but by yearning to end Hashem’s pain. When we sit on the floor on Tisha B’av, we don’t only cry because we’re broken. We cry because He is with us in the rubble. Because His children are despised, because His Torah is trampled, because His Name is diminished in the eyes of the world.
And so we cry: “Ribono Shel Olam, this is not good for You.” We daven: “Heal us, redeem us; not for us, but for You.” When we cry for the Shechinah, when we shift from my pain to His honor, we unlock the most powerful force in existence: Tefillah L’maan Shemo.
And in that merit, may we herald the comfort of Tzion and Yerushalayim.
