One of the most remarkable teachings of Chazal seems almost impossible to understand. The Midrash tells us that Mashiach is born on Tisha B'Av, the very day on which the Beit HaMikdash was destroyed (Eichah Rabbah 1:57).
How can the day that marks our greatest national tragedy also be the day on which Geulah redemption begins?
Surely Geulah should have come on a day of joy, not on the day when Jerusalem burned, the Beit HaMikdash lay in ruins, and the Jewish people began a long and painful exile.
Yet Chazal are teaching us something profound. Geulah does not begin only after the darkness has passed. It begins within the darkness itself.
The Midrash illustrates this with a remarkable story.
A Jewish farmer was ploughing his field when his ox suddenly let out a loud cry. An Arab passing by listened carefully and said, "Jew, unharness your ox and put away your plough, for your Beit HaMikdash has just been destroyed."
A short time later the ox cried out again. This time the passerby smiled and said, "Harness your ox once more and return to your work, for the King Mashiach has just been born."
The farmer, astonished, asked the child's name.
"Menahem," came the reply-"the Comforter."
The message is extraordinary. At the very moment that one chapter of Jewish history came to its tragic end, another quietly began. While the flames still consumed the Beit HaMikdash, Hashem had already prepared the future redemption.
The destruction was real. The tears were real. But they were not the end of the story.
To understand this idea, we need only look at something every farmer knows.
A seed resting safely on a shelf will remain exactly as it is. It will never produce anything. Before it can grow, it must first be buried beneath the earth.
Hidden from view, the seed begins to decay. Its outer shell breaks apart. Anyone watching from the outside might think it has been ruined.
In reality, the opposite is true.
Only after the shell breaks can new life emerge. What appears to be an ending is really a beginning. The seed has not been destroyed; it has been transformed.
Perhaps this is why Chazal chose to teach that Mashiach is born on Tisha B'Av.
The Churban was not the end of the Jewish people. It was the painful beginning of a journey that will one day lead to the rebuilding of the Beit HaMikdash.
This does not lessen our grief. We mourn because the loss was immeasurable. We cry because the Shechinah no longer rests openly among us.
But together with our tears, we hold firmly to another truth: Hashem has never abandoned His people. Even when we cannot see His plan, He is already preparing what comes next.
That is why Tisha B'Av itself begins to change after chatzot, halakhic midday.
Although the fast continues and our mourning is far from over, subtle signs of hope begin to appear.
We no longer sit on the floor as mourners. We put on tallit and tefillin for Minchah, symbols of honour and of our eternal bond with Hashem. In many communities, the parochet is returned to the Aron Kodesh. There was even a long-standing custom to tidy the home on Tisha B'Av afternoon in anticipation of Mashiach, expressing complete faith that redemption can come at any moment.
These customs do not diminish our mourning.
They remind us that a Jew never despairs.
Even while we mourn the past, we continue to prepare for the future.
This transition from mourning to hope is expressed beautifully in the climax of the Kinnot.
Near the end of the morning service, the congregation rises to recite אלי ציון ועריה - Alei Tzion V'Areha.
The kinah mourns the destruction of Zion, the Beit HaMikdash, the Kohanim, the Levi'im and the glory that once filled Jerusalem. Every verse is filled with longing and sorrow.
Yet something remarkable happens.
Even before the words have finished, the melody begins to lift our hearts.
Unlike the mournful tunes of the earlier Kinnot, Alei Tzion is sung throughout the Jewish world to a melody of dignity and hope. It is still a lament, but it already points towards consolation. The music reminds us that although we are remembering the past, we are also looking to the future.
This is no accident.
The kinah compares Zion to "a woman in the pains of childbirth" (כְּאִשָּׁה בְּצִירֶיהָ).
That image says everything.
Childbirth is painful. There are moments when it seems that the suffering will never end. Yet every mother knows that those pains are not the pains of death. They are the pains that bring new life into the world.
Chazal use the same expression when speaking about the difficult period that will precede the coming of Mashiach-חבלי משיח (Chevlei Mashiach), the birth pangs of redemption.
The message is clear.
The suffering of the Jewish people is never an end in itself. It is leading somewhere. We may not understand Hashem's timetable, but we know that history is moving towards redemption.
Perhaps this is why Alei Tzion concludes the Kinnot.
After hours of mourning, Chazal wanted us to leave with hope. We do not deny the pain, but neither do we allow the pain to define our future.
A Jew cries over the Churban, yet never gives up waiting for the rebuilding.
That hope has sustained us through every generation.
Few people understood this better than the Bluzhever Rebbe, Rabbi Yisrael Spira זצ"ל.
During the Holocaust he endured the horrors of the Janowska concentration camp. On the night of Tisha B'Av, together with a small group of fellow prisoners, he sat on the cold ground and recited Eichah from memory. Around them was cruelty beyond imagination. It seemed as though the Jewish people had reached the darkest chapter in their history.
The following afternoon, while forced to work under brutal conditions, one of the Chassidim quietly asked the Rebbe how it was possible to believe that Mashiach is born on Tisha B'Av when they were surrounded by such suffering.
The Rebbe answered in words that remained with his disciples for the rest of their lives.
We must never judge the future only by what our eyes can see today.
If we look only at the suffering around us, despair will overcome us. But the Torah teaches us that Hashem's plan continues even when it is hidden from view. Human beings see destruction; Hashem is already preparing redemption.
The Nazis could destroy Jewish homes, synagogues and communities.
They could not destroy the covenant between Hashem and His people.
They could burn buildings.
They could not extinguish Jewish faith.
That faith enabled Jews to survive the darkest years of our history without losing their belief that redemption would one day come.
It is no coincidence that some of the most inspiring songs of faith were composed during those terrible years.
One of them has become one of the best-known melodies in the Jewish world.
One of the most moving expressions of this faith emerged from the darkest moments of the Holocaust.
In 1942, a Modzitzer Chassid named Reb Azriel David Fastag was imprisoned together with thousands of other Jews. He found himself on a cattle train heading towards Treblinka, surrounded by fear, suffering, and uncertainty.
In that terrible moment, he turned not to despair, but to faith.
He closed his eyes and began to sing the words of the Ani Maamin:
אֲנִי מַאֲמִין בֶּאֱמוּנָה שְׁלֵמָה בְּבִיאַת הַמָּשִׁיחַ,
וְאַף עַל פִּי שֶׁיִּתְמַהְמֵהַּ, עִם כָּל זֶה אֲחַכֶּה לוֹ בְּכָל יוֹם שֶׁיָּבוֹא.
"I believe with complete faith in the coming of Mashiach. And even though he may delay, nevertheless I wait for him every day that he will come."
At first, the melody sounded like a cry from a broken heart. It expressed the pain of a people being led into darkness.
But slowly, something changed.
The tune grew stronger. The sorrow was still there, but it was joined by courage. The song rose above the fear of the moment and became a declaration of eternal Jewish faith.
The prisoners around him joined in. In a place where the Nazis tried to remove every trace of human dignity, Jewish souls were still able to sing.
The melody eventually reached the Modzitzer Rebbe, who was living in America. When he heard the tune, he was deeply moved. He understood that this was not merely a song composed during tragedy. It was a message from the Jewish soul itself.
The same words that accompanied Jews in their darkest moments would one day accompany the Jewish people into the days of redemption.
The song of exile would become the song of arrival.
This is the message of Tisha B'Av.
We live in a world where many people struggle with uncertainty. The Jewish people have experienced war, loss, division and pain. Many individuals carry private struggles that others never see.
At times, it is tempting to look only at what is broken.
But the Torah teaches us something different.
The destruction of the Beit HaMikdash was not the final word of Jewish history. The exile was not the end of our story. The seed was buried, but the seed was alive.
The farmer in the Midrash heard an ox crying.
The stranger heard a message from Heaven.
At the very moment when one person saw only destruction, another recognized the beginning of redemption.
Perhaps that is the challenge of every Tisha B'Av.
Can we mourn sincerely while still believing completely?
Can we cry over what is missing while still trusting that Hashem is preparing what is coming?
A Jew does not ignore suffering. We sit on the floor. We read Eichah. We remember the tragedies that shaped our history.
But we also rise.
We put on our tallit and tefillin. We prepare our homes. We sing Alei Tzion. We continue to say Ani Maamin.
Because our tears are not tears of hopelessness.
They are the tears of a nation waiting for its redemption.
The day on which the Beit HaMikdash was destroyed is also the day on which Mashiach was born.
That is not a contradiction.
It is the deepest message of all.
When everything appears lost, Hashem may already be preparing the beginning of something new.
The seed is hidden beneath the earth-but it is still growing.
And we continue to wait, with faith and with hope:
אֲחַכֶּה לוֹ בְּכָל יוֹם שֶׁיָּבוֹא -
I await him every day that he will come.