After Tisha B’Av: The Temple, Israel, and the Future We Await

Yesterday we kept Tisha B’Av. We fasted, mourned, and remembered the destruction of the First and Second Temples, the fall of Jerusalem, exile, persecution, and the long history of suffering that followed. Tisha B’Av turns our eyes backward and asks us to sit, for a time, with loss. But once the fast is over, our gaze begins to shift again. We begin to look forward, and in doing so we are confronted with an important question: what exactly are we hoping for when we pray for Jerusalem, for redemption, for the coming of the Messiah, and for the restoration of the Beit HaMikdash?

Traditional Jewish prayer repeatedly expresses a longing for Jerusalem and for the rebuilding of the Temple. Those words are deeply embedded in Jewish consciousness. Yet I think it is worth pausing to ask what we actually imagine when we say them. Do we truly desire a literal return to the religious world of the First and Second Temples? Do we hope to see kohanim once again slaughtering animals, sprinkling blood upon the altar, burning offerings, and restoring the ancient sacrificial system exactly as it once existed? Or are we longing for something greater: a restored Israel, a restored Jerusalem, a restored Temple, and a messianic age of peace in which humanity draws closer to God without returning to the bloodshed of the ancient world?

I do not claim to know the answer. I am not interested in turning personal speculation into dogma. But I do believe the question is worth asking honestly.

Orthodox Judaism, as I practice it, is rooted in the Written Torah and in the authoritative Oral Torah, and that means we cannot dismiss the Temple or its sacrificial service as primitive, barbaric, or somehow contrary to authentic Judaism. The Torah itself establishes the Mishkan, the priesthood, the altar, the offerings, and the entire sacred service surrounding them. Sacrifices were not merely tolerated by Torah; many were explicitly commanded. The Temple was not a mistake, the priesthood was not a mistake, and the sacrificial system was not some foreign corruption that accidentally entered Judaism. It was part of the covenantal life of Israel.

At the same time, acknowledging that something had a rightful place in ancient Israel does not mean that I must personally long for its restoration in exactly the same form. I can respect what the Temple was without pretending that I want to stand in a courtyard filled with the blood of slaughtered animals. Personally, I do not. The idea of an animal dying because of my sins troubles me deeply. I would rather approach God through teshuvah, prayer, restitution, charity, Torah, and a changed life. That does not mean the Torah was wrong. It means that after nearly two thousand years without a functioning sacrificial system, Judaism has developed ways of drawing near to God that have become central to our religious life.

The prophets themselves repeatedly warned Israel that ritual could never substitute for righteousness. Micah asks whether God desires thousands of rams or rivers of oil and answers instead that we are required to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God. Hosea declares that God desires mercy and knowledge of God rather than sacrifice. Isaiah condemns worship offered by people whose hands are filled with injustice. Jeremiah warns against trusting in the mere presence of the Temple while living corruptly. These passages do not abolish Torah. The prophets did not possess the authority to overturn commandments given in Torah. What they teach is that sacrifice without repentance is empty, ritual without justice is empty, and religious observance without mercy is empty. The Temple was never meant to become a substitute for ethical life.

When the Second Temple was destroyed, Judaism suffered an immeasurable catastrophe, but Judaism did not end. The rabbis helped the Jewish people build a religious civilization capable of surviving without a functioning Temple. Prayer became increasingly central. Torah study became an act of worship. The synagogue became a place of gathering, learning, and prayer. The Jewish home became a sacred center where Shabbat, festivals, blessings, marriage, family, and mitzvot sanctified ordinary life. Teshuvah could be practiced without bringing an animal to Jerusalem. A person could confess wrongdoing, make restitution, change their conduct, pray, give tzedakah, seek forgiveness, and restore damaged relationships.

Over generations, Jews discovered that God could be encountered over a page of Torah, at a Shabbat table, in a synagogue, while visiting the sick, while feeding the hungry, while comforting a mourner, or while quietly reciting the Shema. I do not believe these things should be treated merely as unfortunate substitutes for a supposedly superior form of Judaism that disappeared in the year 70. They are Judaism. They have shaped Jewish spiritual life for almost two millennia, and I believe there has been genuine religious development in that process.

This is where I must distinguish between personal conviction and binding doctrine. I cannot say that Torah was wrong to command animal sacrifice, and I cannot say with certainty that sacrifice will never return. But personally, I do believe that Judaism may have grown beyond the need for it. I believe the rabbis helped us develop a way of approaching God that no longer depends upon the shedding of animal blood. Perhaps the destruction of the Temple forced Judaism to bring forward aspects of Torah spirituality that had always been present but had not yet become central. Perhaps prayer, repentance, study, charity, and acts of lovingkindness are not merely substitutes for sacrifice, but a fuller expression of what God ultimately desires from us. I hold that as an opinion and a hope, not as a doctrine that I insist every Jew must accept.

Traditional Judaism connects the messianic age with the restoration of Israel and the rebuilding of the Beit HaMikdash. The Rambam himself includes the rebuilding of the Temple in his description of the work of the Messiah, and Derekh HaTorah (the Way of Torah) takes that tradition seriously. What I am more cautious about is pretending that we already know every detail of what the messianic future will look like. Perhaps the Temple will be restored together with the ancient sacrificial system. Perhaps some sacrifices will return while prayer and synagogue worship remain central. Perhaps the Temple will serve primarily as a house of prayer, teaching, pilgrimage, reconciliation, and national worship. Perhaps the Messiah will teach Israel how commandments rooted in the ancient world are to be understood in a very different age. I simply do not know.

Personally, I hope that the Messiah will not reinstitute animal sacrifice. I hope that the Judaism we have developed through centuries of prayer, study, repentance, charity, synagogue worship, and sanctification of the home will remain. I hope that a restored Temple will represent the fulfillment of Jewish spiritual development rather than a simple reconstruction of the ancient world. But again, that is a hope, not a dogma. The future belongs to God.

This is also why I am generally opposed to contemporary movements that seek to actively rebuild the Temple. My opposition is not opposition to the Beit HaMikdash itself. It is opposition to the attempt to force redemption through politics. The Temple Mount today exists within one of the most politically and religiously sensitive places in the world. Actions taken there can affect millions of people and can easily become entangled with nationalism, territorial claims, violence, and political struggle. I cannot support the idea that we should provoke conflict in order to force the arrival of something that properly belongs to the messianic future.

We can pray for the Temple without attempting to build it tomorrow. We can long for Jerusalem without attempting to seize history by force. We can hope for redemption without trying to manufacture redemption ourselves. If the Messiah comes and restores Israel, then the circumstances of that restoration will become clear. Until then, we wait. Waiting is not unbelief. Sometimes waiting is itself an act of faith.

The Temple is sacred, and for that very reason it should not become a political weapon. Messianic hope should not become a justification for territorial struggle, political domination, or religious provocation. The Kingdom of God is not created by winning an election, passing legislation, controlling a holy site, or forcing history toward a desired outcome. If redemption truly comes from God, we do not need to manufacture it through political machinery.

This larger principle also shapes my relationship with Zionism. I am not a Zionist, but neither am I an anti-Zionist. The description that fits me best is non-Zionist. I believe Jews have an unquestionable right to exist. I believe Jews have a right to live in the Land of Israel. I believe the modern State of Israel has a right to exist, and I believe Israeli Jews have the same right to defend themselves and their families that any other people possess. Israel is also home to millions of our Jewish brothers and sisters. Whatever disagreements I may have with the Israeli government, its courts, its political parties, its rabbinate, or its policies, the Jews who live there remain my people.

For that reason, I struggle deeply with forms of anti-Zionism that become hostility toward Israel’s existence or that encourage Jews to align themselves with movements seeking the destruction of Israel or the suffering of its Jewish population. Criticism of Israel is not betrayal. Disagreement with an Israeli government is not betrayal. Opposition to a particular policy is not betrayal. But actively working against the existence or security of a country in which millions of Jews live is something very different. I cannot celebrate or participate in the suffering of other Jews simply because I disagree with their government. Jewish solidarity should mean something.

At the same time, supporting the existence and security of Israel does not require us to turn the modern State of Israel into an object of religious devotion. The modern State of Israel is not identical with the Israel of Torah. It exists in the historic Land of Israel, contains Jerusalem, is home to millions of Jews, and understands itself as a Jewish state. All of that matters. But it is still a modern political nation-state with a parliament, political parties, elections, secular courts, government ministries, military institutions, and bureaucracies.

The Knesset is not the Davidic monarchy. The Prime Minister is not the Messiah. The Supreme Court is not the Great Court of Torah. The Chief Rabbinate is not the Sanhedrin. The existence of a Jewish-majority government in the Land of Israel does not, by itself, mean that biblical or messianic Israel has been fully restored. From a Torah-led perspective, we can therefore appreciate the State of Israel without confusing it with the final redemption. We can support its right to exist without claiming divine approval for everything its government does. We can defend Jews against those who seek their destruction without treating every political decision of Israel as sacred. We can love Israel without turning Zionism into theology.

The same distinction applies to Israeli religious institutions. Because Israel identifies itself as a Jewish state, there is sometimes an assumption that the Judaism officially recognized there must possess authority over every Jew everywhere. I do not accept that assumption. The Chief Rabbinate of Israel does not automatically possess religious jurisdiction over every Jewish community in the world. Israeli batei din do not become universally authoritative merely because they operate within the State of Israel. Israeli religious politics do not determine Torah.

Orthodox Judaism looks first to the Written Torah and to the authoritative Oral Torah, particularly as systematically codified in the Mishneh Torah of the Rambam. Modern institutions may be respected. They may contain learned rabbis and may at times offer wise guidance. But they do not become universally binding merely because they are Israeli. We can respect Israeli Judaism without believing that every Jewish community must reproduce its institutional structures, politics, or stringencies.

This is why I prefer a Judaism that remains deliberately non-political. We do not need to become Zionists in order to care about Israel, and we do not need to become anti-Zionists in order to criticize it. We do not need to turn Judaism into a political movement at all. Our loyalty is first to God, Torah, the Jewish people, and the responsibilities of the covenant. Governments change. Parties rise and fall. Ideologies come and go. Torah remains.

And so we return to the original question. What are we actually waiting for when we pray for Jerusalem? Do we simply want to recreate the past, or are we longing for the fulfillment of everything the past pointed toward? I do not imagine the messianic age as a simple return to the ancient Near East. I hope for something greater. I hope for a restored Israel that knows peace. I hope for a Jerusalem in which Jews no longer live in fear. I hope for a Jewish people reconciled with itself. I hope for Torah studied without coercion, converts welcomed with compassion, the poor cared for, the stranger protected, the oppressed defended, and human life treated as sacred.

I hope for a Messiah who teaches us how to live more faithfully before God. And yes, I hope for a restored Beit HaMikdash. But I hope that whatever stands on that holy ground will represent peace rather than bloodshed, reconciliation rather than domination, and holiness rather than politics.

So I can still say, with sincerity, “Next year in Jerusalem.” I can still pray for the rebuilding of Jerusalem, for the restoration of Israel, and for the coming of the Messiah. But when I say those words, I do not imagine rivers of blood running from an altar. I imagine peace. I imagine reconciliation. I imagine holiness. I imagine a world in which the knowledge of God makes us more just, more compassionate, and more humane.

Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps one day the sacrifices will return. If the Messiah comes and teaches Israel that this is what God requires, then I will have much to learn. Until that day, however, I will not campaign for the return of blood to the altar. I will not attempt to force redemption through politics. I will not confuse Zionism with Judaism, and I will not confuse the modern State of Israel with the messianic Israel that is still to come.

But neither will I turn my back upon Israel or upon the Jewish people who live there.

I will pray. I will study Torah. I will keep the mitzvot. I will stand with my Jewish brothers and sisters. I will mourn the Temple that was destroyed without demanding that every feature of the ancient world be recreated. And when I say, “Next year in Jerusalem,” my prayer will not be steeped in blood.

It will be a prayer for restoration, a prayer for redemption, and above all, a prayer for peace.