By Rabbi Josh Wander
Our Sages teach that while the First Temple was destroyed because of the grave sins of idolatry, immorality, and bloodshed, the Second Temple was destroyed because of sinat chinam—baseless hatred. We often imagine this as open hostility between Jews, arguments, insults, or political infighting. Those certainly qualify. But perhaps one of the most dangerous expressions of sinat chinam is far more subtle: the ability to continue living comfortably while becoming indifferent to the pain of our own people.
Nearly three years into a war that has touched almost every family in Israel, our soldiers are still serving on the front lines in Gaza, Lebanon, and Syria. Thousands of families have buried fathers, sons, husbands, brothers, and daughters. There are widows learning how to rebuild shattered homes, orphans growing up without parents, and tens of thousands of wounded veterans carrying both visible and invisible scars. Many will spend years recovering from devastating physical injuries, while countless others silently battle the psychological trauma that accompanies war.
Yet, for much of society, life continues almost unchanged. The cafés remain full. The beaches are crowded. Shopping centers are bustling. One can spend a day in Tel Aviv or even Jerusalem and hardly notice that the Jewish people are still fighting for their survival. The disconnect becomes even more pronounced thousands of miles away in New York, Los Angeles, London, or Paris, where daily routines continue with only occasional reminders that an entire nation remains at war.
Judaism does not demand that we stop living or celebrating life. On the contrary, preserving hope and continuing to build the future are themselves expressions of faith. The concern is different. It is whether we have become so accustomed to the suffering of others that we no longer truly see it. Whether we have trained ourselves to compartmentalize the pain of our brothers and sisters because acknowledging it would require us to change our priorities.
Our Sages did not merely tell us why the Second Temple was destroyed. They also taught us how national tragedies are meant to transform us. The Rambam, in Hilchot Ta’aniyot, based upon the teaching of the Talmud, explains that when calamity befalls the Jewish people, we are commanded to cry out, examine our deeds, and recognize these events as a call to repentance. If, however, we dismiss them as random occurrences and simply continue with life as though nothing has happened, the Rambam calls such an attitude cruel. Why cruel? Because refusing to respond spiritually allows us to remain unchanged, and as a result, further calamities may follow. Ignoring the warning does not make it disappear; it only delays the response that Heaven seeks from us.
Perhaps this teaching speaks directly to our generation. We have become remarkably skilled at adapting to crisis. We learn to function amid reserve duty, funerals, casualty reports, and the constant uncertainty of war. Adaptability is an important survival mechanism, but it also carries a spiritual danger. The extraordinary gradually becomes ordinary. The shocking becomes routine. Eventually, we stop noticing.
The tragedy of sinat chinam is not only found in angry words or bitter disputes. It can also be found in emotional distance. When another Jew suffers and we no longer feel compelled to share in that burden, to ask how we can help, to pray more intensely, to volunteer, to visit the wounded, to comfort the bereaved, or simply to recognize their sacrifice, something essential has been lost. Love of one’s fellow Jew is measured not only by how we speak to him, but by whether his pain becomes our concern.
This responsibility belongs to every segment of the Jewish people. The ongoing debate over military service has become so consuming that we often overlook a more fundamental obligation. Regardless of one’s position on the draft, there should be no disagreement that every Jew must recognize the extraordinary sacrifice being made by those standing on the front lines. Whether one serves with a rifle, through acts of chesed, or by dedicating oneself to Torah study, our soldiers should be remembered every single day in our prayers and learning. They should know that the entire Jewish nation stands behind them, grateful for the burden they carry on behalf of us all.
There is an important distinction in Judaism between אחדות and אחידות. Unity is not uniformity. The Torah never expected every Jew to look alike, think alike, or serve Hashem in exactly the same way. From the very beginning, we were divided into twelve distinct tribes, each with its own character, mission, and blessing. The Kohanim were different from the Levi’im, the Levi’im from the rest of Israel. Throughout our history, different communities developed unique customs, traditions, and approaches to Torah. Diversity has never been the problem.
The challenge is whether we can respect and appreciate those differences while recognizing that we are still one people with one destiny. We do not have to agree on every issue, adopt one another’s customs, or live identical lives. We do, however, have an obligation to care for one another, to honor each other’s contributions, and to recognize that every Jew carries a piece of the national mission. The opposite of sinat chinam is not sameness—it is the ability to embrace our differences while standing together as one nation before Hashem.
The period leading to Tisha B’Av is intended to awaken precisely this sensitivity. We mourn the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash, but mourning is not merely an exercise in remembering history. It is an opportunity to examine whether the spiritual conditions that led to that destruction still exist within us. If the Temple fell because Jews became disconnected from one another, then its rebuilding begins when we reconnect.
Our soldiers should never feel forgotten. Our bereaved families should never feel abandoned after the headlines fade. Our wounded veterans should never have to fight their battles alone. Every widow, every orphan, and every displaced family should know that the entire Jewish nation carries their burden together.
Perhaps the greatest antidote to sinat chinam is not simply avoiding hatred. It is cultivating genuine responsibility for one another. It is opening our eyes to the struggles unfolding around us instead of allowing ourselves to become desensitized. It is refusing to accept that another Jew’s suffering is someone else’s problem.
If we can become more attentive to the pain of our brothers and sisters, more responsive to their needs, and more united in sharing one another’s burdens, perhaps we will spare ourselves additional suffering. Perhaps the unity that our Sages identified as the key to rebuilding what was lost can once again become the force that transforms mourning into redemption.
As the Talmud teaches, כל המתאבל על ירושלים זוכה ורואה בשמחתה—“Whoever mourns for Jerusalem will merit to witness her joy.” Genuine mourning is not merely sitting on the floor on Tisha B’Av or reciting Kinot. It is opening our hearts to the suffering of our people, allowing their pain to become our own, and responding with compassion, prayer, and action.
Perhaps the first stone of the Third Beit HaMikdash will not be laid by cranes or architects, but by a Jewish people who once again learn to carry one another’s burdens. When we replace indifference with responsibility, division with respect, and apathy with genuine concern for every member of our nation, we will have begun rebuilding the Temple long before its stones are set in place.