On the Kol Nidre, we reflected on responding to tragedy through crying or anger. Even as peace (hopefully) looms in the Middle East, there is still much pain that lingers and trauma that is unresolved.
Listen to the audio recording here: https://recorder.google.com/40819764-ee1c-4647-83d3…
The Kutzker Rebbe taught that, in response to tragedy, there is a ladder with three rungs. At first, we respond to tragedy from the first rung. Then, at some point, we may move to the second rung. And finally, perhaps, we respond from the third rung.
The first rung—the first way that we respond to tragedy—is through crying or crying out.
The second is through silence.
And the third is through laughter.
Tonight, we’ll explore responding to tragedy through crying or crying out. Tomorrow morning, we’ll talk about responding to pain through silence. And tomorrow evening, we’ll turn to laughter. We should also be able to record these talks, so if you’re not able to be here for all of them, hopefully they’ll be available in a few days.
The idea of responding to pain, tragedy, or trauma through crying out is not new in Judaism. In fact, the rabbis almost radically reimagined God after the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE. When the Temple was destroyed, the Jews were exiled, dispersed, and scattered. They lost political autonomy and sovereignty.
But more than that—the Temple, the very place where they spoke with God, was destroyed. Effectively, Judaism ended. Their God had seemingly lost in battle, and they no longer had a place to commune with God. One could imagine others saying: “Find a new faith.”
Instead, the rabbis—perhaps with no small amount of audacity—reimagined God through the Midrash.
Because God in the Bible was the military God: leading the Israelites through the desert, freeing them from Egypt, and bringing them into the land we now know as Israel. But that military God had just lost in war.
So the rabbis reimagined our relationship with God. No longer was God the warrior to whom we cried out for victory. Instead, they imagined a God weeping alongside God’s people. A God weeping at the destruction of the Temple, and at the dispersal of Jews outside Jerusalem and Israel.
This is a God who weeps with God’s people. A God, the rabbis understood, who is not ashamed to cry.
When I think about stories in Judaism of crying out in pain, the one that stands out to me most is the story of Rabbi Yohanan and Resh Lakish.
Once, while bathing in the Jordan River, Rabbi Yohanan encountered Resh Lakish, who was then the head of a band of robbers. Different commentators give different versions of what happened, but essentially Rabbi Yohanan said: “Instead of robbing me, let me teach you the ways of Torah, and I’ll give you my sister’s hand in marriage.”
Resh Lakish accepted, reformed his ways, did teshuvah, and became a scholar—a giant of the generation.
At one point, though, Rabbi Yohanan and Resh Lakish had a heated debate in the house of study—over something technical, like the sharpening of a knife. Rabbi Yohanan said to him: “A person always knows their trade.”
Resh Lakish was deeply offended. He said: “What have I done to you, Rabbi? Why would you bring up my past? Why would you throw that in my face? I did teshuvah. I learned with you. I learned at your side, as your colleague. Why would you embarrass me publicly?”
Their feud grew. And in his anguish, Resh Lakish fell ill and died.
The rabbis then wondered: “Who will we send to comfort Rabbi Yohanan?” They chose Rabbi Elazar ben Pedat, known for his wisdom. But every time they debated, Elazar would simply agree with Rabbi Yohanan: “You’re right.”
Finally, Rabbi Yohanan grew frustrated. He cried: “Don’t you think I already know I’m right? That’s why I say it! Where is Resh Lakish? For every point I raised, he would raise 24 objections. And I would raise 24 counterarguments. And through that, we came to a deeper understanding of Torah.”
And then Rabbi Yohanan cried out: “Where are you, son of Lakish? Where are you, son of Lakish?” He wailed until his mind was taken from him, and he was driven to insanity.
We can hear the pain in Rabbi Yohanan’s cry. We can hear the loss of the Jews in exile.
And I imagine that each of us is feeling some measure of pain today. For some of us, life and the world feel in a good place—and that should be celebrated. And yet we may still carry pain. Others may feel our lives are in turmoil, or that the world is in crisis.
And many of us—perhaps most of us—feel some mixture of both. There is much to be proud of, much to celebrate, and also times when we hang our heads in shame, or simply want to cry out and scream because we don’t know what else to do.
And so, our first rung of response—in the face of pain, tragedy, difficulty, and trauma—is to cry.
God cried.
And we, too, grieve for people around the world—from the Middle East to Ukraine, to the church shooting just a few days ago in Grand Blanc, Michigan. Sometimes, the only thing we know to do is cry—for ourselves, for our family, for our friends, for strangers.
And let me remind you: it is okay to cry for yourself. Sometimes we feel guilty: “Others have it worse. How can I cry for myself?” But of course we can. Judaism teaches that before we can comfort others, we must have some measure of comfort in ourselves.
So perhaps tonight we cry for ourselves, so that we have the capacity to help others. Or perhaps we cry for both ourselves and others. Or perhaps, if we feel steady, we can cry for others.
In just a few moments, we’ll recite our first Amidah of Yom Kippur. It is said that God is most receptive to hearing our prayers when we recite the Amidah.
So I invite you: open your hearts. Let any grief or pain you are holding pour out—for yourself, for your family, for your friends, and for anyone in the world whom you are keeping close in your thoughts and prayers.
