Only G-d Can Comfort Us
By Yochanan Gordon
I’ve heard people express how difficult it is to mourn the loss of something we’ve never seen or experienced. On the surface, it seems like a valid concern—if we’ve never laid eyes on the Beis HaMikdash, how can we genuinely grieve its absence?
But that view is rooted in a limited, hyperlocal understanding of self. Our lives didn’t begin the day we were born. Our souls have likely walked this world before, many times. And even without vivid memories of the Temple, a Jew attuned to our heritage can instinctively feel that life today is a far cry from what it was meant to be.
We’ve grown so used to defining Judaism as culture—food, music, customs—that we’ve lost touch with its core identity. That paradigm has to shift. And if we forget who we are, our enemies are always there to remind us.
It’s astonishing that some still believe the war Israel has been fighting—since October 7, 2023—is merely about land. It’s not. The Palestinians are the latest in a long line of enemies who have tried to erase the Jewish people from existence, just mentioned throughout the kinos this past Tishah B’Av. Nevuchadnezzar, Pharaoh, Balaam, Titus, Hitler, Stalin, and the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem were all united in their shared goal to erase the Jewish people from history.
So when we open a Chumash, a page of Gemara, or even the Navi, we’re not reading about them—some ancient people from a distant time. We’re reading about ourselves. This is our story. These are our ancestors, our victories, our failures. It all began in the mind of Hashem—and that’s the real reason they want us gone.
Tucker Carlson, in a widely viewed interview with Senator Ted Cruz last month, mocked the idea that G-d’s blessing to Avraham—“I will bless those who bless you and curse those who curse you”—has anything to do with the modern State of Israel. But whether or not you’d personally accept an invitation to Prime Minister Netanyahu’s Shabbos table, the fact remains: he is the political leader of the city that G-d chose as His dwelling place.
Even the late Satmar Rebbe, Rabbi Yoel Teitelbaum, understood that a goy who hates Israel is a purebred antisemite. It’s just too bad that many of his followers are incapable of making that distinction.
Throughout our history, we’ve had kings and leaders we weren’t particularly proud of. Still, they were kings nonetheless, installed by Divine will. When we read the news, we shouldn’t view it through a purely political or modern lens. We’re witnessing an ongoing attempt to complete a mission that so many of our greatest leaders and warriors strove for—and failed to realize.
The soldiers who gave their lives in this war understood exactly who they were and what they were fighting for.
I’m writing this on the eve of Shabbos Nachamu. We are a nation in deep need of comfort. Over the course of our history—and especially since that horrific morning of October 7, nearly two years ago—we’ve suffered devastating losses: parents torn from their children, children left without parents, siblings grieving the loss of their closest companions, and hostages holed up in dark underground dungeons whom no attempt towards comforting will be effective.
So yes, maybe you struggled to feel the weight of Tishah B’Av this year because you’ve never seen the Beis HaMikdash. But if you’re even remotely connected to the pain of the past 22 months, then you know—we are a people in desperate need of nechamah.
And that leads to the question: what does comfort actually look like?
For many, Shabbos Nachamu is the great release after weeks of mourning—steaks on the grill, music, concerts, vacations, letting summer resume its flow. But this year feels different. It is different.
Just before writing this, I read reports in the Times of Israel and Arutz Sheva that Netanyahu is now planning a full conquest and resettlement of Gaza. My immediate thought was, “Finally—a leader with conviction, someone willing to act as a true Jewish leader.” In my mind, that was always the only logical outcome after the atrocities of October 7.
But then I remembered a story about the Klausenberger Rebbe, Rabbi Yekusiel Yehuda Halberstam. After surviving Auschwitz—having lost his wife and eleven children—he said that when the camps were finally liberated, he was sure it must be Moshiach. But when he saw that the jets overhead were American, not the miraculous eagle described by Chazal, his heart broke. He realized redemption hadn’t come—not yet.
And that’s when my mind turned to Pesikta d’Rav Kahana, chapter 16:8. It begins with the heavenly call, “Comfort, O comfort My people” (Isaiah 40:1), but what follows is extraordinary.
One by one, the prophets come forward—each proclaiming, “G-d has sent me to comfort you.” But Jerusalem, weary and wounded, replies to each: “With what are you comforting me?” The prophet quotes a verse of consolation. Yerushalayim responds with another verse—one that recalls the prophet’s earlier words of rebuke and destruction. “Which message should I believe?” she asks. “The one where you condemned me, or the one where you claim to care?”
Each prophet is turned away. Their comfort falls flat.
Finally, G-d says, “Let us go together and comfort her.” Only then does Jerusalem begin to soften.
In a breathtaking cosmic scene, Heaven and Earth, the living and the dead, this world and the next—all rise in unison to comfort her: “Comfort her for the loss of the Ten Tribes. Comfort her for the pain of Yehuda and Binyamin. Comfort her, My people. Comfort her with Me.”
That’s what true nechamah looks like. Not distraction. Not denial. Not gestures from those who once justified our pain. But deep, unwavering presence. A comfort that comes from G-d Himself—and from all existence bending toward us in compassion.
It reminds me of another Midrash: in the time to come, the Jewish people will approach the Patriarchs, searching for someone who never gave up on them. Avraham and Yaakov, despite their greatness, once accepted G-d’s decree to destroy the people. Only Yitzchak, who defended us even in our darkest hour, will be embraced as our father.
That’s the kind of comfort we need now. The kind that sees us fully and stays with us anyway.
I don’t know about you. I can only speak for myself.
Steaks and concerts are nice—but fleeting. We are living in times when Israel is being sold out by people too blind or cowardly to see through the lies of terrorists posing as victims. At this point, real comfort comes from one place only—Hashem Himself.
And it’s to Him that we must now turn.
Yochanan Gordon can be reached at [email protected]. Read more of Yochanan’s articles at 5TJT.com.
