We arrived in Israel only to be greeted by chilly rain and dark skies. We made our way to Yerushalayim hoping the weather might change and the sun would come out, but the weather remained bleak.
Still, I hoped that by the next day the rain would stop and the sun would shine. But the cold rain continued and the skies remained dark.
“Why?” I wondered to myself. “Why this chilly rain? It’s coming too early.”
There are no coincidences in Jewish life. Everything comes from Hashem. The word “why” in earthly languages leaves you frustrated. There are no easy answers to it. But in Hebrew, the holy tongue, every word has layers of meaning. The word why madua (“why”) means mah-deah – what wisdom do we learn from this?
There is yet a second term in the holy tongue for “why” – l’mah – to what end is this happening, for what purpose? In other words, we are challenged to search our souls and examine our hearts and probe our minds so that we might come to the truth.
I do not claim to have any special insight but it occurred to me that the sun might not have come forth because it felt embarrassed and ashamed.
“Almighty G-d,” I can hear the sun saying in front of Hashem’s Holy Throne, “how can I fulfill my mission? How can I shine upon your holy city, where there is so much bloodshed – so much pain? How can I shine when two-legged beasts invade your holy sanctuary and brutally cut down rabbis in the midst of davening?
I remember my visits to Auschwitz leading tours of students from the United States and soldiers from Israel. The skies over Auschwitz were dark and it rained intermittently. It occurred to me that the holy souls of our six million martyrs were hovering above the skies and shedding their tears, and that is why the rain kept failing in that hell on earth.
Last month we were witness to a brutal massacre, one that was very much like the pogroms of the past and that served as a horrific reminder of the Holocaust.
Har Nof is a beautiful and tranquil community in Jerusalem made up mostly of English-speaking families who came to Eretz Yisrael because of their dedication to living full Torah lives. There are no “militants” in that neighborhood. The men there are enveloped in Torah and their weapons are the Words of Hashem, not guns or grenades.
And yet it was there that the unspeakable slaughter occurred, in Hashem’s sanctuary – a beautiful synagogue where rabbis wrapped in their talleisim and crowned with their tefillin were immersed in prayer.
Does it seem so farfetched, then, that the sun would cry out to Hashem and plead, “How can I shine in the midst of this barbarism? When children are left orphans and wives lose their husbands?”
I visited the bereaved families. They are heroes; staunch and committed in their faith, they proclaim their trust in Hashem. Despite their agonizing ordeal, these families – wives, parents, and children of all ages – cling tenaciously to Torah. They do not question G-d. They know with a full heart that there are things beyond the capacity of man’s understanding; that their suffering was not in vain and that somehow it will bring our nation one step closer to the redemption.
I marvel at their total emunah. In the U.S., many people come to me for counseling, advice, and guidance. They lose their faith over things like a business crisis or a loss of money or a broken engagement. I do not minimize these challenges or the broken spirits they can cause, but we to have to concede that the suffering in such cases can’t compare with the suffering endured by the families of the Har Nof victims.