The Three Weeks 5780
I hate Zoom.
To be sure, this bit of technology is responsible for making the COVID-19 pandemic a whole lot more tolerable. With an utter shutdown of in-person contact, the ability to talk, learn, and “hang” on a virtual platform has been a welcome blessing.
All the same, I, like many others, have come to loathe Zoom. Though better than nothing, it is impersonal and sterile. More than anything, it has become the icon of a period characterized by social distancing, by strained human contact.
On the one hand, it’s difficult to pinpoint what exactly Zoom lacks compared to the live version. What exactly makes a shiur on Zoom different from a shiur in shul? It’s hard to articulate—I’m not sure it comes down a specific “this” or a particular “that”—but it feels distant. It’s just not the same, just not the real thing. And, like so many, I crave the real thing.
One of the most difficult aspects of Tisha B’Av and the Three Weeks of mourning that precede it is in trying to grasp what exactly we are lacking. We do our best to connect to and ruminate over the sorrows and tragedies of the past, reminding ourselves that, somehow, were it not for the destruction of the Bais Hamikdash, these horrors would never have come to pass.
And yet these matters, however tragic, are ultimately secondary. They are the byproduct, the result of the loss of the Mikdash. But what of the Mikdash itself and of its absence? Intellectually, we know that its loss means the loss of a great many mitzvos that cannot be performed. But does the observant Jew who incorporates Halacha into every waking decision truly feel mitzvah-deprived? The Churban meant the loss of an edifice dedicated to serving Hashem. But shuls, yeshivos, and batei medrash dot the landscape in whatever regions Jews now call home.
What, then, does the loss of the Bais HaMikdash mean?
.וְעָ֥שׂוּ לִ֖י מִקְדָּ֑שׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּ֖י בְּתוֹכָֽם
(שמות כה:ח)
And you shall make for Me a Sanctuary, and I will dwell in your midst.
(Shemos 25:8)
As described in the pasuk above, the difference between having the Mikdash and not is the difference between whether or not G-d will dwell in our midst. With or without a physical Sanctuary, G-d is in the driver’s seat. The question, to some degree, is whether or not we’re in the car with Him. Do we share the same space, or is our relationship long-distance?
Much like the earlier analysis of Zoom meetings, It’s hard to fully articulate what is missing when we “get together” from afar. But it is a distinction we undoubtedly feel, even if it is impossible to adequately describe in words. Even when no physical contact exists, simply being in the same room as another person heightens the experience with greater warmth, connection, and closeness.
In some sense, this is the difference between the presence and the absence of the Bais Hamikdash. We have innumerable mitzvos and halachos to fully furnish a meaningful lifestyle. We have the power of tefilah to serve as our voice to G-d, and the power of Torah that allows us to listen to His. There are infinite points of contact that allow us to craft a relationship with Hashem. And yet, it’s all on Zoom. He does not dwell among us—is not present in the room—the way that the Mikdash would allow Him to be. What we mourn on Tisha B’Av and the days leading up to it is not complete obliteration of a relationship with Hashem; we bemoan the chasm that has been inserted between ourselves and G-d. Do we still connect? Sure. But remotely. And, as we know all too well, connecting remotely just isn’t the same.
When you next feel that twinge of annoyance at the sight of a class, call, or meeting being held over Zoom, try to lean into that feeling just a bit. The uneasiness and frustration over the continued inability to sit at the same table, to share the same space, and to fully connect is precisely what we’ve been missing for the past 2,000 years.