On Thursday, Tisha B’Av, Jews around the world sat on low chairs and read ancient poems of mourning.
Many of these lamentations describe the obvious horrors of Jewish history: cities destroyed, communities massacred, families scattered, and sacred places burned.
But one of the most striking poems focuses on something less dramatic: it mourns the disappearance of the 24 priestly divisions that once took turns serving in the Temple in Jerusalem.
At first sight, this seems an unlikely subject for grief. Why mourn an ancient rota? Why write poetry about which group was responsible for the service in a particular week?
The answer is that the poem is not really mourning an administrative system. It is mourning a culture of responsibility.
The Temple did not function only through great moments of religious drama. Most of its work was routine. The lamps had to be prepared. The offerings had to be brought. The incense had to be burned. The doors had to be opened. The music had to be sung.
Somebody had to turn up.
Somebody had to be on duty.
Each priestly family knew that there would be a week when responsibility belonged to them. They could not assume that somebody else would do it. They could not applaud the importance of the Temple in theory while remaining absent in practice.
This is a deeply relevant message for modern Israel.
A country is sustained by people who take their turn. Soldiers stand guard while the rest of us sleep. Doctors and nurses work through the night. Teachers enter classrooms each morning. Volunteers deliver food, visit the bereaved, and support families whose lives have been turned upside down.
Society depends less on speeches than on shifts.
It depends on people who arrive, often without recognition, and do what needs to be done.
But the poem does not simply mourn the collapse of this system. It asks why it collapsed.
Its answer is uncomfortable.
The destruction was not only caused by foreign armies. Something had already begun to disintegrate within Jewish society. People retained the appearance of religion while losing its moral substance.
There were rituals, but also hypocrisy. There were sacred buildings, but also corruption. There were public declarations of faith, but not always honesty, justice, or compassion.
One line is particularly haunting. It describes people who “covered earthenware with silver, a shining exterior over an empty core.”
That phrase could have been written about our own age.
We live in a culture of covering. We cover weak ideas with sophisticated language. We cover institutional failure with public relations. We cover moral emptiness with impressive branding. We cover selfishness with slogans about principle.
The silver is polished. The object beneath it remains worthless.
This temptation is not confined to religion. It affects every part of public life.
Politicians speak of unity while thriving on division. Businesses speak of values while mistreating employees. Public figures speak of responsibility while blaming everyone but themselves. Institutions publish mission statements that bear little resemblance to their internal culture.
We have become experts in presentation.
Asking the real questions
The ancient lamentation asks a more difficult question: What lies underneath?
Religious communities must ask it. Is faith expressed only through dress, language, and public observance, or does it produce humility, honesty, and concern for others?
Secular institutions must ask it, too. Is liberal language matched by tolerance for those who think differently? Is concern for human dignity applied consistently, or only when it is politically convenient?
The State of Israel must ask it.
We speak constantly about being a Jewish and democratic state. Those words are themselves a kind of silver. They are precious, but only if there is something real beneath them.
A Jewish state cannot be defined only by symbols, ceremonies, and a public calendar. It must also be judged by how it treats the weak, the elderly, the immigrant, the bereaved, and the stranger. It must be judged by whether public service is genuinely understood as service.
A democratic state cannot be defined only by elections. It must also be judged by respect for institutions, restraint in the use of power, honesty in public debate, and the willingness to recognize the legitimacy of those with whom we disagree.
The gap between what we say and what we are is where societies begin to rot.
This was the warning of the ancient prophets. Sacred buildings cannot compensate for an unsacred society. Ceremonies cannot conceal cruelty. Religious language cannot transform dishonesty into virtue.
The poem’s power lies in its refusal to let us blame only others.
Tisha B’Av naturally directs our attention towards those who destroyed Jerusalem. Jewish history contains no shortage of enemies, persecutors, and murderers. Their responsibility must never be minimized.
But national maturity requires more than the ability to identify the crimes of others. It requires the courage to examine ourselves.
That is not victim blaming. It is responsibility.
Blame asks: Who caused this?
Responsibility asks: What can we now change?
Perhaps this is why the forgotten priestly rota is such a powerful symbol. Every division knew when its week had arrived. At that moment, it was no longer enough to admire the service or speak about its importance. They had to take their place.
That is the question facing Israeli society now.
Whose turn is it to lower the temperature of public debate?
Whose turn is it to listen rather than shout?
Whose turn is it to place national responsibility above political advantage?
Whose turn is it to care for the families carrying unbearable burdens?
Whose turn is it to stop polishing the silver and examine what lies underneath?
The answer is that it is our turn.
The poem ends with a longing for the “sweet fragrance” of the Temple service to return.
A fragrance cannot be contained. It spreads beyond the place where it begins. But the same is true of a bad smell. A moral stench cannot be sealed inside a parliament, an institution, a religious community, or a private office.
Corruption, hypocrisy, and contempt seep outwards. They enter the language of society, weaken trust, and gradually become normal.
Fragrance therefore matters. The character of a society is carried in the atmosphere it creates.
A healthy society should possess a moral fragrance. Its values should be detectable not only in its speeches and symbols, but in its streets, offices, schools, hospitals, and homes.
Conversely, when there is dishonesty or moral decay beneath the polished surface, others will eventually smell it. No amount of silver can disguise it forever.
Yesterday we mourned what was destroyed.
Today, the task of rebuilding begins.
Not by pretending to be what we are not. Not by covering what is worthless with silver. But by making the inside worthy of the outside.
By becoming what we claim to be.
And by taking our turn.
The writer is a rabbi and physician. He writes and teaches on Jewish ethics, leadership, and resilience. His work appears on rabbidrjonathanlieberman.substack.com and youtube.com. @rabbidrjonathanlieberman.
