August 8, 2025 | Shabbat Sermon
We all have powerful images etched into our minds that we carry with us. They might be from a particular place or moment in our travels. They might be something we saw on television or from a significant moment in our lives. These images are permanent, much like the way we record sound bites on a vinyl record or, a century earlier, when Thomas Edison created the first phonograph. That permanence is the same with the images etched in our souls—images that carry us from place to place and give us insight into our history and story.
Of the images etched into my mind, I have been drawing on one since last Saturday evening, when we observed Tisha B’Av, the anniversary of the destruction of both Temples in Jerusalem. When you walk near what is called Robinson’s Arch—named for the archaeologist who discovered the extension of the Western Wall of the Kotel, near the corner of the Southern Wall—you encounter an enormous pile of large stones. These stones are the remnants of the Roman siege in 70 CE—or possibly an earthquake. In the stories we tell, however, they are a reminder of a world that once was, a world that only lives on through the commandments of the Torah or the practices described in the Mishnah, which we can no longer follow. Each of these one-ton stones bears witness to our people’s history and the destruction of what we once knew as safety and sanctuary.
Can you imagine what it would be like to have lived in those times? Going back to the First Temple period, we may not have to imagine too much. Last week, we read from the opening chapter of the book of Isaiah as part of our Haftarah. Isaiah lived a few hundred years before the destruction of the First Temple. His world was filled with idolatry, a huge gap between the wealthy and the poor, and neglect of God’s teachings. He expressed frustration that the Israelites brought offerings, calling them futile because they were accompanied by evil. He called to them: “Cleanse yourselves, remove evil from My sight, learn to do good, seek justice, relieve the oppressed, uphold the orphan’s rights, take up the widow’s cause.” With these words, Isaiah knew what would befall his people if they did not correct their ways—they would lose their identity. The destruction of the ancient Temple was not only the destruction of a physical space, but the undoing of sanctuaries, rituals, and traditions that grounded daily life.
Centuries later, rabbis sat with that history and grappled with it. Why did it happen? They wanted to understand so they could prevent such destruction again. Rabbinic tradition tied those historic moments to our actions. The Talmud tells us in Tractate Yoma (9b) that the First Temple was destroyed because idol worship, forbidden sexual relationships, and bloodshed were rampant. During the Second Temple period, the people were performing mitzvot, so why was the Temple destroyed? The rabbis teach it was because of senseless hatred (Talmud Gittin 55b). Their reasoning reflects how human action brings about destruction.
Many of us know the story of Kamza and Bar Kamza, but it is always worth retelling. A man instructed his servant to invite his friend Kamza to a party, but the servant invited his enemy, Bar Kamza, instead. When the host saw Bar Kamza, he wanted to remove him, but Bar Kamza offered to stay and pay for what he ate. The host refused. Bar Kamza offered to pay for half the party, then the whole party, but neither was acceptable, and the host threw him out—while the rabbis present did nothing. Bar Kamza then informed the Roman emperor that the rabbis were conspiring against him. He suggested sending a red heifer as a gift for sacrifice. En route, Bar Kamza blemished the calf, ensuring the rabbis would not accept it, thus offending the emperor and prompting the siege of Jerusalem. According to the rabbis, this could have been avoided if they had intervened.
This story is about more than the destruction of a physical space—it is a creative way to teach that the world, along with our values and institutions, can crumble around us. In many instances, we cannot control these events. Stephen Covey, in The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, describes living in a world of concentric circles. The outer circle is the Circle of Concern: health, family, politics, war, safety, antisemitism, and more. Some things in this circle are beyond our control, while others are not. Inside is the Circle of Influence—the place where proactive people focus their energy, working on what they can change. Reactive people focus on the Circle of Concern, blaming, accusing, and feeling victimized.
Were the rabbis of old working within their Circle of Concern or Circle of Influence? Perhaps both. The prophet Isaiah may be our model for focusing on the Circle of Influence. This Shabbat is called Shabbat Nachamu, named for the opening words of the Haftarah from Isaiah 40. This Isaiah knew of the destruction of the Temple and sought to comfort the people: “Nachamu, nachamu ami yomar Eloheichem. Comfort, comfort My people, says your God.”
Renowned author Dr. Erica Brown explains that harsh realities must be balanced by love. Tenderness, she writes, is not just about how you speak but about the relief your words bring. Consolation begins when we value what truly matters. “The first step of consolation,” she says, “is not a tangible solution. It is hope.”
And that is our question: how do we find hope in darkness? Today, sanctuaries of safety and security feel like those toppled stones in Jerusalem. The war between Israel and Hamas rages on. Hostages remain in captivity. Hunger and suffering persist—in Gaza, Sudan, Ukraine, and beyond. Here at home, people face poverty, homelessness, antisemitism, and fear.
The great Temple may be gone, but our tradition teaches about the Mikdash M’at—the “small sanctuary” of synagogues and study halls. We may not be able to control the world’s great concerns, but we can influence our immediate surroundings. We can feed the hungry, help the vulnerable, volunteer, and create sanctuaries of kindness and connection.
As we recite the Mi Shebeirach, a prayer for healing, let us remember: the most powerful healing comes when we turn prayer into action. May we be comforted by our ability to create small sanctuaries, to act as agents of change, and to bring hope into the world around us. Kein yehi ratzon.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Rick Kellner