The year is 70 C.E.  We have been exiled from Israel and  the Beit Hamikdash, our Temple desecrated and destroyed.  We were warned that such destruction would come if we, as a nation, did not do teshuva (repentance), but we did not listen.  It is difficult to wrap our minds around the horrors that we have seen or heard about.  Everybody is either mourning a personal loss, or knows someone who is.  We struggle with the philosophical questions around how Hashem lets this much suffering happen; can any offense warrant this degree of punishment?  And what of those who suffered but did not sin? 

The problems of theodicy have always weighed upon us, as they should.  But there is another dimension to the experience of suffering, a psychological dimension that is affected by, but not defined by, its philosophical cousin.  We may find ourselves at something of a loss, when experiencing overwhelming pain, to make sense of the seemingly contradictory sources that seem to steer us in opposite directions when we try to make sense of the role of s’char va’onesh, reward and punishment, in a Torah framework.  We find sources that seem to indicate that all suffering comes as a result of our flaws and errors, and that we therefore need to take actions to correct those mistakes.  We also find sources that indicate that some events in this world happen by chance and that some suffering cannot be explained by sins.  So how are we to think about teshuva as a response to suffering when we are confronted with it? 

The Talmud and halachic (Jewish legal) sources often advocate teshuva, repentance, as the appropriate response to the experience of suffering.  The Talmud (Berachot 5a) teaches:

If troubles befall a person, he should examine his actions.

אם רואה אדם שיסורין באין עליו יפשפש במעשיו.

The implication is often taken as suggesting a causal relationship, a variation on “there is no suffering without sin” (Shabbat 55a). If someone is experiencing suffering, why should he examine his actions?  Because that’s where he’ll find the reason for his troubles as well as the path he should take to rectify his errors.  The Rambam too, in Hilchot Teshuva (1:4) explains that one does not achieve kapara, atonement, for some transgressions, until he undergoes yissurin, or suffering.  This makes for a tidy counterpart to the Talmudic teaching as it suggests that the suffering is both a direct result of a transgression and provides the needed atonement for it. 

But we also have another concept.  The continuation of the above-mentioned Gemara in Berachot 5a, suggests the notion of “yissurin shel ahava,” literally, ‘afflictions of love.” These sufferings are not to be interpreted as a punishment of any sort, or as a needed atonement, but rather to provide a name and context for suffering which cannot or should not be perceived as retribution.  So, ostensibly, if a person responding to suffering approaches it through some variation of this idea, that his pain is not a punishment for mistakes or shortcomings but simply is, then he would not be required to be “mefashpesh bema’asav,” and repent beyond whatever repentance he would otherwise engage in. 

But what if we look at our sufferings and say that we are not looking for reasons, not looking to connect the causal dots to try and ascertain what spiritual ailment brought our suffering upon ourselves (and then, perhaps, also imagine that we can protect ourselves from future pain)?  What if at the same time that we do not accept the idea that we are being punished, we still want to respond in a spiritually constructive way?  What if we are interested in teshuva, but resist the idea that we should interpret particular sufferings as Divine chastisement for our shortcomings?  Is there a way to reconcile these two approaches and engage in the “examining of actions” in response to the suffering without endorsing the idea that the suffering was caused by whatever of these actions may be faulty?

Maybe we can.  Rabbi Morey Schwartz in Where’s My Miracle? discusses Rabbi Yehudah HaLevi’s explanation from Sefer HaKuzari about how G-d interacts with the world.  He writes that there are four different categories that encompass the different ways in which Divine providence operates:  1. Phenomena under direct, Divine intervention, 2. Natural phenomena that are specifically directed but that come to be through the laws of nature, 3. Incidental phenomena that happen through the laws of nature by chance and 4. “Chosen” phenomena which come about through the human being’s exercise of his free will.  

If we accept Rabbi Yehudah HaLevi’s division, we must then concede that we will not always know (and likely never know) into which category a particular instance of suffering falls.  The philosophical question of how to frame the experience remains unanswered.  However, alongside this existential ambiguity, we have not lost the “halachic” imperative (to borrow the Rav’s concept from “Kol Dodi Dofek”) to respond in a constructive way.  And what better way to respond than to be “mefashpesh bema’asav?”   We need not ascribe causality to an event or experience to be able to take advantage of the opportunity to learn from it.  Maybe this particular instance of suffering was from the first category, phenomena directly from Hashem, and when we examine our actions and find a fault, we may really have discovered a metaphysical cause.  When we do teshuva for that fault, we are fulfilling what Chazal, our sages, hoped we would when they advocated such examination of actions.  But maybe we won’t find the particular fault that led to our suffering.  And maybe this particular instance of suffering is from category three and was a naturally occurring phenomenon that happened by chance and there is no specific fault to which it can be traced.  But the point is, even then, that we can still engage in the “pishpush be’ma’asim,” the examining of actions.  We can create an opportunity for growth out of our pain even when there may not be a particular offense leading to a particular consequence.  If part of how Hashem wants us to grow in life is to take advantage of the small and enormous challenges that inevitably occur by virtue of living in a natural world, then maybe this type of teshuva is exactly what we are supposed to do in response to suffering even if it is not coming in response to a particular sin.  How can we do this?  Perhaps we become more patient, generous and compassionate with others by having greater experience to draw on.  Maybe we are slower to judge others, seeing that we sometimes require more forgiveness ourselves. Perhaps the intensity of our reaction to the event may lead to introspective questions that lead to deeper self-understanding.  That can be a part of teshuva too. 

Many of us have grown up learning or have heard in adulthood about the sins for which the Beit Hamikdash, the Temple, was destroyed.  We may have heard the story about Kamtza and Bar-Kamtza and the idea of “sinat chinam,” baseless hatred of others.   Perhaps we have even heard the phrase that “whoever does not merit seeing the Temple rebuilt in his days, it is as if it was destroyed in his days” which may be interpreted as placement of guilt on each of us. 

In the intellectually sophisticated and wonderfully diverse communities of the Modern Orthodox world we see different responses to this perspective.  Many people find the historical thread between us and the generation of the churban, the destruction, connective and empowering.  Hashem is waiting for us to do teshuva and then the Beit Hamikdash will be rebuilt and Mashiach can come.  The justice of Hashem’s ways may not be clear to us but it is incontrovertible.  For these people, the exhortation to be “mefashpesh be’ma’asav” may inspire growth and teshuva.  Others are somewhat reluctant to assume a degree of personal responsibility for the destruction of the Temple and all the other myriad horrors to which we have been exposed.  For these people, those dots do not connect.  For them, the instruction to examine their actions in response to suffering can backfire, leaving them feeling alienated and resentful rather than connected and motivated to grow.  However, the possibility of taking advantage of Tisha B’Av and its focus on the suffering and destruction that we have endured as a nation, not as an exercise in blame and guilt but as an opportunity to think about ways in which we can grow, may be a more palatable alternative that can lead to real teshuva as well. 

Our communities have mystics and rationalists, people who connect through learning and people who connect through mitzvot.  Paths to teshuva are not uniform either.  It is essential that community leaders help to provide opportunities for different paths of teshuva so that all the roads that we take as a people lead not to Rome, but to Jerusalem.