The Gift of Chazon
Devarim 5785
“Of the 6,000 languages spoken throughout the world today, only one is truly universal: the language of tears.” -- Rabbi Jonathan Sacks1
My father, Rabbi Yaacov Haber, once shared the following powerful story:
During the time of the Holocaust, there lived a great mekubal named Reb Yehuda Patiah. Originally from Iraq, Reb Yehuda was devastated by the reports of suffering coming out of Europe. In response, he moved to Eretz Yisrael and, for seven consecutive nights, he walked the perimeter of the Old City of Yerushalayim, wearing red garments and reciting Tikkun Chatzos, the midnight prayers of mourning for the Beis HaMikdash. As he cried, he collected his tears in a cup. These were tears of deep spiritual mourning for the Jews of Europe and the Shechinah in exile.
On the seventh night, he took that cup of tears, his kos dema’os, and went to the Kosel. There, he sat on the floor and drank the cup of his own tears. Then he cried out: “Hashem, have mercy on Your people in Europe!”
When the Gerrer Rebbe, the Imrei Emes, heard this story, he was stunned. He said, "I can't believe that this act didn’t stop the Holocaust. How could something like that not stop it?” Then he added quietly, “Maybe it did.”
There is power in the Kosel, the Shechinah and the tears of a tzaddik. My father added that he believes the deepest power lies in the tears themselves.
The Shaarei Dema’os, the gates of tears, are never locked. Reb Yehuda Patiah drank his own tears and offered them as a korban, a sacrifice, to Hashem. He cried again, as if to say: “Here are my tears, Ribono Shel Olam. Please, have mercy.”
The true avodah at the Kosel is to cry (not to take selfies, nor to argue or make a scene). We cry for the return of the Shechinah and the rebuilding of the Beis HaMikdash.
In a recent chabura, Rav Gerzi shared a series of powerful teachings about tears. What follows are his words, which he graciously shared with us:
On the 17th of Tammuz, five tragedies befell our people2. The first among them, and the most foundational, was the breaking of the Luchot3. This fracture at Sinai reverberates across generations. The Midrash teaches that the letters of Divine inscription flew heavenward when Moshe beheld the sin of the Golden Calf, leaving lifeless stone in his hands4. The Luchot were not simply broken tablets; they symbolized the rupture.
The pasuk in Eicha, "she weeps in the night"5, reflects a deeper sorrow: not merely mourning the destruction of Jerusalem, but echoing the primal grief of brokenness at Sinai. The Hebrew word for cheek, lechi, shares a linguistic root with Luchot. This suggests that every tear which rolls down the cheek is, in some sense, a reflection of those broken tablets6.
Tears themselves, says the Gemara, wrote the final verses of the Torah7. The word for tears, dema, stems from medumah—meaning mixture8. Thus, tears arise from existential confusion. They are shed when the sacred distinctions of the world were between pure and impure, Israel and the nations, good and evil become blurred.
The essence of exile is not merely geographic displacement but ontological confusion. In Mitzrayim, the Israelites retained their language, dress, and names9. Yet in later exiles, this clarity eroded. Foreign languages, ideologies, and aesthetics seeped into the Jewish soul. While we say on Yom Tov that Hashem has elevated us above all tongues10, exile has inundated us with the vocabulary of the profane.
The Sages teach that the beauty of Yefet (Greek culture) dwells in the tents of Shem11, but when this dwelling becomes domination, exile deepens. The Erev Rav, the Mixed Multitude who left Egypt with Israel, embodies this blurring. Their very name—erev, meaning mixture—alerts us to their danger12.
The exile of the Jewish people mirrors the cosmic exile that began with Adam's sin. By eating from the Eitz HaDa'at Tov V'Ra (Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil), Adam ushered in a world where opposites fused inappropriately13. Before that sin, good and evil stood distinct; after it, the two became intertwined.
Sinai offered a brief return to pre-sin consciousness. Chazal teach that at Sinai, the zohama, the spiritual pollution from the serpent, ceased14. But the Golden Calf reinstated that confusion. In response, Moshe shattered the Luchot. The broken tablets became a symbol of broken boundaries.
The Sages teach, "A person does not sin unless a spirit of folly enters him"15. This folly arises when da'at—integrative awareness—dims. Da'at allows a person to be aware and to distinguish good from evil and to choose wisely. Without it, one drifts into ethical and spiritual chaos. The Zohar16 warns that in the End of Days, folly will proliferate, even amidst increased access to knowledge.
Thus, we see bizarre contradictions: increased mitzvah observance on one hand and unprecedented moral breakdown on the other. This is not a paradox—it is the predictable outcome of a world where da'at has been eclipsed by confusion.
Hashem is referred to as Makom, the "Place" of the world17. To connect to Hashem is to connect to one's true place, regardless of physical location. The Midrash teaches that Hashem is not "in" the world; rather, the world is "in" Him. Thus, to attach oneself to the Divine is to transcend exile. This state with Da’at.
This is how one can taste redemption even before Mashiach comes. The Ramchal explains in Da’at Tevunot18 that personal geulah precedes national redemption. By extricating oneself from the confusion of good and evil and reconnecting to Hashem, a person leaves exile in his inner world.
Why do we weep, if we do? Not only for the Temple, not only for lives lost, but for the ontological confusion of exile. The weeping of Tishah B’Av is the soul's protest against mixture, against the fusion of good and evil which clouds the light of truth.
The Zohar teaches that even one true tear, born from Da'at and yearning, can pierce the heavens19. That tear reflects not just sorrow but clarity. It cries not because of despair but because it remembers what should be.
The broken Luchot were the first tear in our history. Each tragedy thereafter is but an echo of that shattering. Yet in every exile lies a path home: the path of Da'at, of discernment, of remembering one's true Place. May we merit to gather the shards, bind them with tears of clarity, and behold the whole Tablets once more.
Each shard of the Luchot became another tear. Each one is a symbol of what could have been, if only.
The origin of tears isn’t simple sadness or joy. It is actually the collapse of language. A tear escapes when we can no longer express what we mean. Tears are the outcome of when the heart overflows and bypasses the mouth.
In a world of confusion, sometimes the only thing left is to cry.
This led me to a deeper understanding of crying.
Crying is one of humanity’s most profound and mysterious abilities. It serves as a bridge between the physical and emotional worlds. It is uniquely human, a reflection of our tzelem Elokim, our Divine image. It captures the soul’s capacity to channel deep feeling into physical expression. Tears express our humanity and the depth of our experiences.
Oddly enough, crying is often misunderstood and discouraged. It can be stifled, suppressed, especially by men.
Shlomo HaMelech reminds us, “There is a time to laugh and a time to cry.”20 Though, not all tears are holy or even warranted altogether. We discourage people from causing others to cry. Tears born from pain inflicted by another can cause lasting wounds. While tears that emerge from self-growth, from longing, from connection to Hashem, these can elevate and transform.
The Midrash21 describes a hidden place called Mistarim, where Hashem Himself retreats to cry. In that concealed space, Hashem shares in our pain. He weeps with us. Perhaps He needs to go there because, as I will explain later, the deepest light is still hidden. Outward joy reflects revealed light, but the future light, the ultimate ohr, remains concealed. Hashem cries in the hidden places for our world which is still living in the shadows.
Or maybe, it is our tears that cause Hashem to cry.
One of the most moving songs I have ever heard is Daddy Dear, sung by Mordechai Ben David:
“In the heavens there’s a cup
That gets fuller each day,
And I heard that Hashem
Keeps it close nearby,
And He fills it with his tears
Each time that we cry.Little one, little one
It is true, yes, it’s true,
Zaidy told me years ago,
And his dad told him too,
Fathers cry for their children,
And Hashem does the same,
When we hurt, so does He,
Yes, He feels our pain.Tears of pity from his eyes,
In this cup, sadly flow,
Till one day when it’s full,
All our troubles will go,
We will dance, we will fly,
In the sky like the birds."
Rav Shlomo Carlebach shares a deeply moving idea22:
“The first line of the Torah says, “Bereishis bara Elokim es hashamayim v’es ha’aretz” — “In the beginning G-d created heaven and earth.” And the verse continues, “V’ha’aretz haysa sohu vavohu,” — “And the land was in chaos;” “v’Ruach Elokim merachefes al pnei hamayim” — “And the Spirit of G-d was upon the waters.”
The Medrash asks, “What was the Spirit of G-d which was upon the waters?”
The Spirit of G-d refers to rucho shel Mashiach, the spirit of Mashiach.
Then it says “Vayomer Elokim yehi ohr” — “G-d said, ‘Let there be light’” — “va’yehi ohr” — “and there was light.” That means that someday, when Mashiach comes, it will be the time for G-d to say, “Let there be light.”
Now listen to this. “’V’ha’aretz,”—“and the land” — this is the Holy Land. What other land could the Torah be talking about?
“V’ha’aretz haysa sohu vavohu,” the land was mamesh in chaos — this is the churban Beis Hamikdash.
“v’Ruach Elokim merachefes al pnei hamayim” — “And the Spirit of
G-d was upon the waters.”
The Medrash asks: “What were these waters?” And it answers, “These were all the tears that were shed over the destruction.”
Who was crying over the destruction? The Jewish people were crying. G-d was crying.
In Hebrew, there is no singular term for water. Mayim is always plural. Since mayim can mean the tears, it’s always two tears.
In other words, when I am crying, G-d is crying. There has never been one tear in the world. With every tear that someone sheds, G-d is crying also. Two tears, at least. Every time. No one has ever cried alone.
We know that the first two letters of the Hebrew alphabet are alef and beis. Av. And the strangest thing is: “Bereishis bara,” the phrase describing the creation of the world, begins with beis. And the Ten Commandments, the Torah, begin with alef.
What caused the destruction of the world? The alef and the beis, the physical world and the Torah, never met.
It’s the same thing for us in our personal lives. The conflict inside every human being is a conflict between the alef and the beis. Our beis, our physical world, has not been completely integrated into our alef, the Torah.
Or that some of our alef, our Torah, didn’t get deep enough into our kishkes, our physical being. The alef and the beis just never got together — which results in destruction. “
These words cut to the heart. No one ever cries alone and every tear that we shed is doubled as heaven cries with us. The Ruach Elokim, the spirit of Mashiach, hovers over our tears, waiting for the moment the world can be made whole again.
When our alef and beis finally unite, when our Torah is incorporated into our physical lives, when our knowledge of truth is part of how we live, feel and act, that is when yehi ohr, “Let there be light”, will be spoken again. That point is the tikkun of Av, which will go from a month of darkness, to one of healing and we will bask in the Ohr HaGanuz, the light we catch a glimpse of through Chazon.
It is striking that the prophecy of destruction in this week's haftarah is called a Chazon, a vision. It is the only time such a prophecy is referred to in this way.
The Nefesh HaChaim23 explains that tears signify the resolution of din, clearing the way for Divine compassion to flow. Far from being a mere release of emotion, these tears emerge after a process of introspection and teshuvah, serving as a spiritual purification. They pave the path for chesed to take root. It is akin to a spiritual washing machine, rinsing away din and allowing kindness to fill the space it leaves behind.
Even physiologically, tears have purpose. Some types of tears contain lysozyme, a bactericidal enzyme that protects the eye and promotes sterility and healing. Spiritually, the source of a tear determines its power. Tears shed in prayer, in yearning, or in teshuvah carry us upward. They open gates that might otherwise remain sealed.
Tears are a catalyst for change, especially in teshuvah. They soften the walls that we have built between ourselves and Hashem. They remind us how much we need Him, and they open a space for connection. Beyond sadness, tears embody renewal and hope. They become the place where man and his Creator can meet.
Ultimately, crying is a gift, a holy act that bridges past, present, and future. It allows us to express the inexpressible, to cleanse the heart, and to connect deeply with others and with God. As my father often says, “Tears are the ink of the soul.”
Shabbos Chazon is a Shabbos of vision. It is a Shabbos of seeing and tears. It is the moment we glimpse Yerushalayim, not the city of today, but the city of promise. Once we glimpse it, we allow ourselves to see it, and we can finally cry. Because then we are no longer numb nor lost. Then we begin to feel.
Then we are homesick. When a child goes to camp and cries from missing home, we worry. We hope they’re not too homesick. Yet at the same time, we’re comforted. Because it means home means something. That it was safe, grounding, familiar.
Someone shared a powerful story with me this week:
During the Six Day War, a group of Israeli soldiers found themselves standing on Har HaBayis. Overwhelmed by the moment, the holiness, the history, the sheer magnitude of returning to that sacred place, they began to cry. Among them were both religious and secular soldiers, and they were all equally moved.
A bystander, observing the scene, turned to one of the secular soldiers and said, “I understand why the religious soldiers are crying. But why are you crying?”
The soldier looked up and replied with an answer that is still echoing off the walls of Yerushalayim, “I’m crying because I know I’m supposed to cry… I just don’t know why.”
As with crying, homesickness is another deeply human experience we’ve been conditioned to suppress. Homesickness is a form of mourning, a longing for what once gave us stability, protection, and identity.
Sadly, when it comes to Tisha B’Av, most of us don’t know how to feel that way. We’re told to grieve the Beis HaMikdash. However, most of us don’t even know what we’re missing. So we pivot. Especially in America, the day becomes about interpersonal growth, lashon hara, ahavas Yisrael, unity. These are important values and happen to be easier to digest. It feels safer to talk about being nicer than to sit with the raw truth that we are still in galus.
In Israel, it’s different. You walk through Yerushalayim and see the remnants of what once was. You feel the closeness. You taste the possibility and it wakes something up. That closeness can also blur the truth. Life here looks complete. BH there are simchas, shiurim, tefillos and Torah. It’s easy to believe we’ve already arrived and that this is the ideal state.
Sadly, we aren’t yet there. The Beis HaMikdash isn’t standing and the Shechinah is still in galus. Hashem’s presence is still hidden, scattered, silenced and waiting.
Somehow, tragically, we’ve gotten used to it.
Homesickness goes beyond the physical location, it is about dislocation. It is the longing for something missing and real.
So wherever you are, whether in the hills of Yerushalayim or a bungalow in the Catskills, this time of year demands something from each of us. It demands honesty, memory and yearning, in that order.
If you can’t cry for the churban, cry for the fact that you can’t cry.
And if you’re not homesick, then daven to be.
Because Hashem is still homeless.
And if that doesn’t bother us, then something is broken in us, not just in the world.
Rav Shlomo Katz writes in his introduction to The Soul of Jerusalem:
Crying over Yerushalayim has to do with my own sense of feeling homeless in this world. Longing for Yerushalayim to be rebuilt it’s when I get a glimpse of G-d’s pain. Once this happens, my own tears over seeing my Father cry rebuild me. They will also, essentially, rebuild my Father’s broken home.
Today is the yahrzeit of the Nesivos Shalom. In his maamar on Parashas Devarim, he explains that before entering Eretz Yisrael, Bnei Yisrael had to first defeat the kelipos, the spiritual obstructions, of Sichon and Og. These kelipos were barriers preventing the nation from settling in the land. Only once these were broken were the people spiritually ready to enter Eretz Yisrael and truly hear the words of Moshe.
The kelipos of Sichon and Og, he explains, obscured the light of Hashem from reaching Bnei Yisrael. As long as that light was blocked, true teshuvah was impossible. Only after removing these obstructions could the people begin to receive Moshe’s message and prepare for entry into the land.
From here, the Nesivos Shalom teaches a foundational principle: Any Jew who wishes to come closer to Hashem, to return in teshuvah, must first work to remove the barriers that block the Divine light. Only then can real change begin.
Later in the parashah, Moshe tells the people that during their forty years in the midbar, even though they complained and felt lacking, they truly didn’t lack aything. Hashem was always with them. The Nesivos Shalom quotes the Kozhnitzer Maggid, who explains that this section is always read on the Shabbos before Tisha B’Av to teach us a profound truth. Even in the darkest moments, Hashem is with us. We may not see Him clearly, yet we can feel His presence. Any time we face darkness, pain, or uncertainty, we must remember that Hashem is still here.
When we can hold on to that truth, even in galus, we get a glimpse of the Ohr HaGanuz, the hidden light. Our strength comes from remembering that, in the deepest sense, we aren’t lacking anything. The Shechinah is with us in galus. We have to remember to look for it, to catch a glimpse of it, especially when we are in the throes of darkness.
The Nesivos Shalom further quotes the Ohev Yisrael, the Apta Rav, who teaches that Shabbos Chazon is the highest Shabbos of the year. Since on this Shabbos, we remember that we are the children of Hashem and He is always taking care of us.
The Ishbitzer Rebbe, in Mei HaShiloach on Yeshayahu Chapter 25, adds another layer. He explains that when Mashiach comes, the tzaddikim will declare, “Here is Hashem, the One we hoped for.” This is a reference to our avodah in this world. In a world where it is easy to give up, where darkness feels overwhelming, it is through Torah and tefillah that we cling to fleeting glimpses of the Shechinah. Even then, what we see isn’t the full light. When the geulah arrives, the Shechinah will be fully revealed, and we will say: That light we glimpsed, the one we held onto despite everything, that was real and now it is here in full. The Shechinah is home and Yerushalayim is rebuilt.
Rav Reuven Sasson, in his sefer VeShochanti Besocham and also in Talelei Chaim on Devarim24, explains a profound idea.
During the Three Weeks, we are given access to a unique spiritual light. It is an ohr that isn’t available at any other time of the year.
When the Beis HaMikdash was destroyed, it wasn’t a finale. At that very moment, the third Beis HaMikdash began to be built in Heaven. One day, it will be revealed to us on the very date of its destruction, the ninth of Av.
If this is the light that will ultimately be revealed on Tisha B’Av, then it makes sense that during these days we can begin to sense it. We can catch a glimpse of what we are truly missing. That awareness opens us to a deeper kind of mourning, not simply for what was lost, but for what we are meant to have.
When we become attuned to the spiritual aura of this time, we begin to feel the absence of the Shechinah. The more we recognize that absence, the more genuinely we can cry for Yerushalayim. When we cry for Yerushalayim, we prepare ourselves to rejoice in its future joy when the light is finally revealed.
So many tragedies have occurred on Tisha B’Av because it is the day when the absence of light is most palpable. The lack of the Ohr HaGanuz, the hidden spiritual light, is felt most clearly. That deep absence points to the depth of the light that will eventually be revealed.
When we sense how close the Shechinah is, and yet how far, that is when our tears begin to flow.
We cry at weddings because even in moments of great happiness, something essential is still missing. We feel the void of Yerushalayim. We sense what could be, we taste what will be, and we see the Chazon. Sometimes, that small glimpse is enough to bring us to tears.
The Zohar teaches that the prophet Yeshayahu is so named because his prophecies center around yeshuah, redemption and hope for the future of Am Yisrael. Rav Moshe Dovid Vali asks an important question: If Yeshayahu is the prophet of consolation, why does his sefer open with such harsh rebuke and warnings of destruction, messages more fitting for Yirmiyahu?
He answers that the purpose of these difficult words was to guide. The warnings were meant to set the people on the path of teshuvah, so they would be worthy of receiving the good that was destined for them. The rebuke was a beginning.
Perhaps we can go one step further.
The word Chazon is more than “a vision.” Maybe it’s more than what the prophet saw, rather what he glimpsed of the future, a flash of what will ultimately be. The present may be shattered, however it is a prelude to a rebuilt future. Perhaps that’s why the book of Yeshayahu ends with redemption. The Chazon of destruction and the yeshuah of renewal are the bookends of the same promise.
The chazon is the greatest gift, it is the comfort itself, for if we would have never had the glimpse of light we would never have what to cry for and be homesick over.
When Mashiach comes Hashem will erase the tears from all faces, including his own, for then there will truly be no reason to cry.
As I was writing this, I saw my friend Rav Joey Rosenfeld posted:
When confronted with growing darkness, the mind must focus on the goodness that shines through. Encountering the clouds of concealment, the mind fights to pave a path of clarity within the thicket. Rebbe Nachman explains that when the difficulty emerges, it is made worse by our hopelessness, a form of despair that emerges when we see no path forward. In order to see beyond the stuckness of the moment, we squint our eyes, bypassing the darkness to gaze beyond into the light that grows. Closing our mind to the present pain, we look beyond the limit towards the redemptive glow that shines at the horizon of the mind.
Shabbos Chazon is a time of vision, cultivating a new posture of hope that sees through the apparent darkness. The need to squint may be induced by the pain of the moment, but it pushes us into the future, a future vision that becomes more real every time we conjure it up in the mind's eye.
We must learn to look beyond appearances, to behold the inside that rests within the outside. Leaning into the irreducible thread of hope and light that is always already there, we awaken the deepest part of our heart, the endless yearning and the deep desire for that which is not yet revealed.
Higaleh Na, please Hashem, reveal Yourself, reveal Your light within the constriction of our hearts. Break open that which is old, allow the newness to flow. Like a river that flows forth from eden, the slow and steady flow of lifegiving water begins to cascade down through the entangled rivers of the mind, drawing us back into the calmest place of all, the Beis HaMikdash of our mind.
The greatest gift is that we remember what to cry for and that we aren’t crying alone. The tears of the tzaddik, the soldier’s sob and the Shechinah’s weeping. May we experience the final tear which will cause Hashem to share all that is hidden and allow us to truly see.
The Power of Ideas p. 137
Mishnah Ta'anit 4:6
Shemot 32:19
Shemot Rabbah 47:1; Rashi on Shemot 32:19
Eicha 1:2
Otzar Midrashim, Lekach Tov on Eicha
Bava Batra 15a
Radak, Sefer - HaShorashim, root . ד-מ-ע -hu
Vayikra Rabbah 32:5
Nusach Tefillah
Berakhot 57b
Zohar III 124b; Vilna Gaon on Sifra de-Tzniuta 5
Bereshit 2:17
Shabbat 146a
Sotah 3a
I 25b
Bereshit Rabbah 68:9; Nefesh HaChaim III:11
§ 40
Zohar I 203a
Koheles 3:4
Eichah Rabbah, Pesichta 24
The Soul of Jerusalem
Maamar Batzelem, Note 5
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