Long ago,[i] Rabban Gamliel, Rabbi Elazar ben Azarya, Rabbi Yehoshua, and Rabbi Akiva ascended the road to Jerusalem. They wished to see for themselves the remnants of the now destroyed Temple. When the four rabbis arrived at Mount Scopus, they viewed from afar, the ruins of our holiest site. They rent their garments as was the custom for those who mourn. As they reached the Temple Mount, they watched a fox emerge from Kodesh HaKodashim, the Holy of Holies. The rabbis began to weep, except for Rabbi Akiva who laughed. These sages lived during a time of devastation and destruction. Why would Rabbi Akiva laugh?
Akiva ben Yoseph did not have an easy
life. Born in the 1st century
of the common era, he lived during a time when the Roman Empire controlled and
later decimated the Land of Israel. Our
Temple was destroyed, our religion upended, our people banished across the
world.
Akiva became one of our leading scholars, but that came later. According to tradition, he was extremely poor, illiterate, and unlearned. He made his living chopping wood to sell to others and to keep his family warm. It wasn’t until he was 40 years old that he learned how to read. He sat alongside kindergarten students reciting the letters of the alphabet.
As he grew older, he became a wise and deeply compassionate rabbinic leader. His Yeshiva grew to over 24,000 students. But then, during the Bar Kochba Revolt in the year 135 CE, tragedy struck. The Romans massacred thousands of his students. The Emperor, Turnus Rufus, executed Rabbi Akiva. As his flesh was raked with iron combs, he recited the words of our most important prayer, the Shema. During his last breaths, Rabbi Akiva felt God’s love as well as hope for the future of Judaism. How could he remain hopeful?
I believe that it was his life experience that provided him with the strength to continue day after day. Here’s one story, in particular. We learn that Rabban Gamliel once traveled by boat. [ii] The great scholar watched in the distance as another ship sank at sea. Rabban Gamliel grieved over the death of the Torah scholar who was on board, Rabbi Akiva. When Rabban Gamliel disembarked on dry land, Rabbi Akiva appeared out of nowhere and began to deliberate on the halachah, the Jewish law. Rabban Gamliel was dumbfounded. “My son, who brought you up from the water?” Rabbi Akiva replied: “A plank from the boat came to me, and I bent my head before each and every wave that arose before me.”
It was a plank that saved Rabbi Akiva as his ship sank. Perhaps a part of the boat broke off or you could imagine someone throwing him a piece of wood that he used as a life raft. Rabbi Akiva held onto that plank with all his might until he reached the shore.
That’s all well and good until you look closely at the text. There’s something unique about the word for plank. In Hebrew it’s daf. Daf typically means page, like daf yomi, the daily page of Talmud study. Why would a page of Talmud help Rabbi Akiva navigate the waves?
The sinking ship was our destroyed Temple. The only thing that remained was one plank, the pages of our tradition. The Torah, the stories, the mitzvot, and the morals, comfort and support Rabbi Akiva as he rides the waves to an uncertain future.
Rabbi Lauren Holtzblatt connects this to our current situation:[iii] “I have thought about this teaching many times since October 7, holding onto the daf as the violence and trauma continue for the hostages that still remain in Gaza, the many displaced from the south and north of Israel, and the innocent Palestinian civilians. I find myself asking, “What are the pages we’re meant to hold on to?”
I can’t answer that question for you, but I can answer that question for me. Seventeen years ago, when I was ordained as a rabbi, I was asked to pick out a verse that summed up who I was and what I believed. I chose this verse from Pirke Avot, Ethics of the Ancestors, “Be of the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing peace, loving humankind, and bringing them close to Torah.”[iv] Over the course of my time as a human being, a Jew, and a rabbi, this verse guides me on how I should live my life. That’s one of the many pages that I hold onto, my mantra and my story, that gives me the strength to keep going. On this Kol Nidre Eve, may we each rediscover our stories, our mantras, and our teachings, that comfort us during this difficult time.
Obviously, that’s not the only page we hold onto. Here’s another lesson that occurs in the Talmud directly after our previous tale. [v] This time, Rabbi Akiva watches from afar as a different boat sank at sea. Rabbi Akiva grieves over the apparent death of that Torah scholar, Rabbi Meir. After Rabbi Akiva disembarks, Rabbi Meir appears out of nowhere and deliberates on the halachah, the Jewish law. Rabbi Akiva asks him: “My son, who brought you up from the water?” Rabbi Meir replies: “One wave carried me to another, and that other wave to another, until I reached the shore, and a wave cast me up onto dry land.”
Like Rabbi Akiva, Rabbi Meir’s ship also sank at sea. But this time, it isn’t a plank, a daf, that brings him to safety, but the waves of the ocean. Wave after wave after wave carries him to dry land.
Once again, if we look closely at the Hebrew, the word for “another,” as in “another wave” is chavro. Most often, chavro is defined as “our friend.” Here, it’s not the waves that carry Rabbi Meir to the shore, but his friends and his community. I imagine Rabbi Akiva watching as community member after community member holds up Rabbi Meir and provides him with consolation and comfort during this stormy moment in his life.
Our Jewish tradition believes in the power of community, especially during moments of consolation. In Judaism, we don’t grieve by ourselves, it is our family and friends who support us. We take turns, placing earth on the casket during a funeral service. We recite mourners kaddish not separately, but in a minyan of at least ten people. We don’t mourn alone, but together at a shiva house.
This past May, after my grandmother died, I personally experienced the power of community. The surviving mourners: my parents, my aunts and uncles, and even my grandfather were all skeptical about sitting shiva. They asked: “Do we really need shiva? Is anybody going to come to the house?” But luckily, we did sit shiva. Dozens of people stopped by including acquaintances who heard the news of my grandmother’s passing, extended family, and old friends who hadn’t crossed paths in decades. It was moving to be together: to listen to stories, to be comforted, and to know that our grief mattered. We might not know what to say when someone has lost a loved one, but we can show up. Our actions state the obvious: “I see you. I’m here for you. I care about you.”
Rabbi Akiva learned the power of showing up. From chavro to chavro to chavro, from one friend to another friend to the next friend, we can carry each other, lift each other up, and support each other during the most challenging moments of our lives.
That’s just what Rabbi Akiva did when he ascended to Jerusalem with his fellow sages. When they reached the Temple Mount, they watched a fox emerge from the Holy of Holies. The rabbis wept, except for Rabbi Akiva who laughed.[vi]
The other three rabbis were horrified. “Why are you laughing?” Rabbi Akiva replied to them, “Why are you weeping?” They said: “We learn in the Torah that if anyone except for a Cohen Gadol enters the Holy of Holies, they will die” (Numbers 1:51) and now a fox walks amongst its ruins. How can we not weep?”
Rabbi Akiva turned to them, “That is why I am laughing. For it is written, that two prophets are connected to each other, Uriah and Zechariah (Isaiah 8:2). For one prophet’s words to be fulfilled, the other prophet’s words must first be true. Uriah teaches: ‘That Zion will be plowed as a field’ (Micah 3:12) which means that foxes will frolic in the Temple. But in Zechariah, we learn: ‘That the elderly will be sitting in the streets of Jerusalem while the squares will be crowded with children playing’ (Zechariah 8:4). I was so pessimistic about the future. The Temple is destroyed, and Jerusalem is now devoid of life and people. Like you, I never believed that Jerusalem would once again be filled to the brim with laughter and with joy or with the elderly and the children gathered in its squares. But now that Uriah’s prophecy has come to fruition, it is evident that the prophecy of Zechariah won’t be far off.”
The sages turned to Akiva and said to him, “Akiva, you have comforted us; Akiva, you have comforted us”
I am always in awe of Rabbi Akiva at that moment. There was such hopelessness for the Jewish people. Weeping is the right response when witnessing our destroyed Temple. Akiva did the opposite. Even during devastation, he held on to a sense of hopefulness and optimism.
There is so much sadness that pervades our world right now. Too much fear, too many worries about the future. There is such grief at the devastation in Israel, the destruction in Gaza, the nervousness of the upcoming election, the horrors of these Hurricanes, and the dread of what’s to come. Like the other sages, a fitting response is to weep. Like them, you might not feel a sense of hope.
Rabbi Akiva was different. He reminds us that symbols of hope can be found everywhere. For Akiva, that fox was a sign of optimism. Not false optimism where everything would return back to normal. As we know, the Temple was never rebuilt. But, hope that our future would be filled with joy, laughter, and peace.
Rabbi Akiva instructs us to grab hold of the pages that matter most in our lives. It is these: our stories, our mantras, our morals that center us and keep us going. As he saw a community come together and support a dear friend, he reminds us that we must show up and lift up our friends during the most challenging moments in their lives. And perhaps most important of all, he teaches that we can always change the narrative, find a glimmer of hope, or share a word of encouragement. May we comfort our friends as they shed their tears. May we laugh even during times of great sadness. Ken Yehi Ratzon. May it be so. Amen.
