The pages of the Jewish calendar are eloquent and evocative. They stir memories and spark images of eventful days and months. What is the face of Chodesh Av?

Until Mashiach’s arrival, there will be only one answer — tears. The Churban Habayis and tears go hand and hand.

But tears are not just a symbol of Tishah B’Av. They are its avodah. The recitation of Megillas Eichah and Kinnos are primarily intended to bring one to grief and mourning. Rav Shimshon Pincus explains why this is important.

Imagine a stranger entering a wedding hall, wondering which of the guests are close friends of the chassan and kallah. It may take him a while to figure it out. The animated dancer executing steps in front of the kallah and the energetic acrobat entertaining the chassan may be only casual acquaintances who have joined in the revelry. After all, who doesn’t love a wedding?

But what if this stranger enters a funeral home in the midst of a levayah? How long will it take him to pinpoint the close friends and family? Almost instantly. They are the ones in shock and tears, their profound grief visible on their faces.

Yom Tov, says Rav Pincus, is like a wedding — relatively easy to enjoy. When we observe someone dancing on Simchas Torah, exchanging mishloach manos on Purim, or singing Hallel at the Seder, we can’t always gauge the depth of his love for Hashem. But there’s one day of the year when we can identify Hashem’s “true friends”: on Tishah B’Av. Sincere grief is unmistakable. Those who cry and mourn for the Churban truly feel the pain of the loss of the Shechinah.

Tears for Generations

The initial tears of Tishah B’Av, those that were shed in the year 2448, were misguided and inappropriate. The Dor Hamidbar, the generation that wandered the desert, cried upon hearing the report of the Meraglim, the spies who returned despondent and fearful from their scouting mission to Eretz Yisrael. After the spies depicted both the inhabitants and the landscape of Eretz Yisrael as gargantuan, the nation felt small, vulnerable, and desperate.

In vain did Kalev and Yehoshua attempt to calm the nation with words of bitachon and emunah in Hashem’s promises and plans. Their pleas went unheeded, and the Dor Deiah, the people who had attached themselves to Hashem with adoration and love, now rejected the Land. “And the entire congregation lifted their voice, and the people cried on that night.” (Bamidbar 14:1)

Their needless panic and pointless weeping was answered with Hashem’s ominous message: “Tonight you have wept for no cause; I will establish this night [of Tishah B’Av] for you to weep with cause, for generations to come!”

Yet our Creator’s punishments are not acts of wrath and vengeance; they’re the means of rectification. How would future tears repair the nation’s terrible mistake? And if tears were the catalyst for destruction, how would they also serve as the deliverance?

The Dor Hamidbar was faulted for shedding tears when there was no reason to cry. But on a different occasion, the nation was condemned for the opposite reason — for not crying when there was abundant cause to cry. And, tragically, when they did cry, it was too late.

“At the rivers of Babylon, there we sat and wept as we remembered Tzion” (Tehillim 137). The Midrash elucidates: When Yirmiyahu Hanavi found his brethren weeping at the banks of the Euphrates River as they descended to Bavel, he told them, “I swear by Heaven and earth, had you cried but one tear back in Tzion, you wouldn’t have been exiled.”

Thus we have two tragic accounts leading to the Churban: In the first, the tears are mistaken; in the second situation, they are missing. In both cases, crying over Eretz Yisrael takes center stage. Why is this so significant?

A Place and a Promise

Eretz Yisrael is not a mere geographic homeland. Just as the signature brachah to a newlywed couple includes the words “bayis ne’eman b’Yisrael,” a wish for them to create a private space for the two of them, so, too, the many promises that Hashem made to the Avos in Sefer Bereishis consistently refer to the gift of the Land. Rav Pincus explains that inherent in the promise of Eretz Yisrael is the offer of a “bayis,” a place where we would dwell together with Hashem, enjoying an exclusive, enduring relationship for all eternity.

Thus, when Klal Yisrael cried in the Midbar at the thought of capturing and settling the Land, they were rejecting more than a piece of territory. Their tears indicated that their dveikus, their attachment and connection to Hashem, had frayed.

And when, generations later, the nation did not cry about the impending loss of their Beis Hamikdash, despite the admonitions of numerous prophets, they were, in a sense, again spurning a relationship with the Divine. After all, the Beis Hamikdash was their meeting place with Hashem. And it was in the Kodesh Hakodoshim, its innermost chamber, that winged figures above the Aron embraced in a display of chibas haMakom, the love of Hashem for His people.

What about our generation? Are we guilty of the same mistakes and omissions?

The Nesivos writes that the verse “She cries exceedingly in the night, and her tear is on her cheeks” (Eichah 1:2) implies that the tears of the Dor Hamidbar persist. The navi employs this imagery to indicate that as long as subsequent generations continue to reject and belittle the kedushah and potential of the Land, and the relationship it represents, we’re still crying the misguided tears of the nation in the Midbar.

Rav Yaakov Emden indicates that we are also guilty of the absent tears. He famously writes that had we only one sin today, the sin of not mourning the Churban properly, this would be enough to keep us in galus. “This in my eyes is the plainest reason for all the persecutions and troubles that have been visited upon us in all our wanderings — we’ve become content to remain on foreign soil, and we’ve forgotten Yerushalayim.”

But why do tears mean so much? What evokes them, and what do they accomplish?

There is a third, most poignant, occasion of weeping over the Churban. The Rema tells of an encounter between the Greek philosopher Plato and Yirmiyahu Hanavi as the latter roamed the ruins of the Har Habayis and mourned its devastation.

“Why would a wise man like yourself, Yirmiyahu, cry over sticks and stones? And, in any case, your Temple is gone — what will you gain from crying over the past?” Plato asked.

“Doubtless, Plato, you have numerous existential questions that you can’t solve,” Yirmiyahu responded. “Tell them to me, so that I can help you.”

Plato did so, and he was astounded at Yirmiyahu’s brilliance as he solved his every philosophic conundrum.

And then Yirmiyahu continued: “You asked, Plato, for the reason and for the purpose of my tears. The reason I cry over this building is because it was the source of my wisdom, this very wisdom that you marvel at. And as for your second question — what will my tears accomplish — this I cannot explain to you, for you wouldn’t understand.”

The third set of tears are the misunderstood tears.

Tears of Purpose

Yirmiyahu felt that Plato was capable of understanding the reason he wept, but not the purpose behind it. What is the answer to Plato’s query? Of what use, ultimately, are Yirimiyahu’s tears?

Rav Simcha Zissel Ziv, the Alter from Kelm, reminds us that the Shaarei Dimah, the Gates of Tears, were never sealed. Perhaps other forms of entreaty have been barred since the Churban Habayis, but a sincere tear always reaches its destination. Thus the prophet’s tears are not akin to “crying over spilled milk,” as Plato suggests. Instead, they have the power to reignite the process of redemption.

A tear is an external manifestation of the inner self. It’s the truest expression of one’s yearnings, emotions, and pathos. When one weeps for the Churban, he is seeking reconnection, return, and reconciliation. This is a call that will not be unanswered.

Yet we remain with one more question. Why did Yirmiyahu feel that he couldn’t explain this to Plato? Why would Plato not have been able to understand the concept of Shaarei Dimah?

A Mysterious Weeping

To solve this puzzle, we need to examine a fourth and final set of tears, different from any others. This is the weeping of the Shechinah.

“Bamistorim tivkeh nafshi mipnei gaavah — My soul shall weep in secrecy for your pride (Yirmiyahu 13:17).” The Gemara expounds on this verse: There is a place called mistorim — a hidden chamber — where Hashem weeps over the Churban, over the pride of Yisrael that was torn away from them and given to the nations of the world.

If the first three sets of tears, all shed by humans, were mistaken, missing, and misunderstood, these tears of HaKadosh Baruch Hu can only be labeled: mysterious.

We don’t fully comprehend this gemara — the chamber is hidden! — for we cannot ascribe human emotion to our Creator. But we do know the import of the Gemara’s words. Hashem cares about us. He wants to have a relationship with us.

Rav Pincus underscores the magnitude of this statement. Grief over a loss is always proportionate to the significance of the relationship. Everyone mourns the death of a close relative, but not every person grieves the loss of a pet. And while many an animal lover has shed some tears for his faithful dog, it’s doubtful that one would cry over a departed goldfish, and almost absurd to mourn the demise of an ant!

The gap between Hashem and ourselves is far vaster than the divide between a human and an insect. The statement that He cries in secrecy over our diminishing relationship is both wondrous and magnificent — and too incredible for Plato to comprehend.

But we understand that it is true.

And Dovid Hamelech understood. His voice is our voice, as he beseeches his Creator: “You know the number of my wanderings; place my tears in Your flask, add them to the count of my suffering (Tehillim 56:9).” He knows the number of our galus wanderings and travels. He records our suffering and, most significantly, he preserves our tears.

And we? Let us hope and pray that all the bystanders, the peoples of the world who are watching history unfold, have an easy time picking us out in the crowd — no matter the occasion — as His stalwart friends.

Originally featured in Family First, Issue 601. Mrs. Shani Mendlowitz is a menaheles at Bais Yaakov Seminary in Montreal, and is a popular lecturer for adults.