“Nachamu, Nachamu Ami – Finding Comfort in an Age of Despair” Rabbi Andrew Oberstein’s Qabbalat Shabbat Sermon, 8/8/25
Rabbi Andrew Oberstein
Qabbalat Shabbat, August 8, 2025 | Parashat Va’Etchanan 5785
Temple Israel of Boston / The Riverway Project
This past Saturday night,
Cantor Stillman and I gathered with about 40 of you in our atrium to mark Tisha b’Av,
the most emotionally difficult day on the Jewish calendar.
I’ll be honest –
it’s a big ask to invite people to come inside on a gorgeous Saturday night in the middle of summer to read the bleakest book in the Bible.
So I was genuinely moved to see that many of you showed up.
We read Eicha,
the book of Lamentations,
traditionally attributed to the prophet Jeremiah.
It describes the aftermath of the destruction of the First Temple in Jerusalem in gruesome,
painful,
and gut-wrenching detail.
War.
Terror.
Starvation.
Abandonment.
It’s not an easy read –
and tragically,
it feels less and less like ancient history and more and more like modern reporting.
These past two years,
Lamentations has hit far too close to home.
*****
But after Tisha b’Av comes something else –
something we are invited to experience tonight.
Our ancestors called this first Shabbat following Tisha B’Av,
“Shabbat Nachamu,”
the Shabbat of Comfort,
drawn from the words of this week’s Haftarah:
“Nachamu,
nachamu ami” –
“Comfort,
comfort,
My people.”
It sounds beautiful,
doesn’t it?
And yet –
what comfort are we supposed to find right now?
*****
I called my mom the other day and asked her how she was doing.
She said,
“Well,
I haven’t looked at the news yet today,
so I’m fine.
How are you?”
And honestly –
I feel the same way.
*****
How are we supposed to move from mourning to comfort when nothing fundamental has actually changed?
*****
Our hostages are still in Gaza.
The humanitarian crisis there is devastating.
Israel’s global support is plummeting faster than I’ve seen in my lifetime.
And our own country feels politically fractured and uncertain,
with democracy itself feeling like it is slipping through our fingers.
Where can we possibly find comfort on this Shabbat Nachamu?
*****
The truth is,
comfort in a world like this isn’t simple.
It’s not easy,
and it’s certainly not passive.
But our tradition gives us a model for what real comfort looks like.
It’s not denial.
It’s not distraction.
It’s something deeper.
*****
There’s a well-known story in the Talmud about two rabbis,
teacher and student.
We read,
“Rabbi Chiya bar Abba chalash,”
which is often translated as,
“Rabbi Chiya bar Abba grew ill,”
but the word “chalash” can also mean “weak” and we can understand this expansively –
not only as physical illness,
but emotional or spiritual depletion.
Rabbi Chiya wasn’t ok.
He was in pain,
stuck,
worn down.
And his teacher,
Rabbi Yochanan entered to visit him and asked him what seems like a very strange question,
“Is your suffering dear to you?”
In other words,
“Do you want to keep living this way?
Are you ok with the status quo?”
Rabbi Chiya said no.
He didn’t want to suffer,
not even for the promised reward of enduring it.
So Rabbi Yochanan simply said,
“Give me your hand.”
And he helped Rabbi Chiya rise –
physically,
spiritually,
emotionally.
Later,
Rabbi Yochanan himself became “chalash” –
he grew weak,
he grew unwell.
And a different rabbi,
Rabbi Chanina,
came to visit him.
Chanina asked Yochanan the same question,
“Is your suffering dear to you?”
and Rabbi Yochanan,
like Rabbi Chiya before him,
said no.
So Rabbi Chanina said,
“Give me your hand,”
and he helped Rabbi Yochanan rise.
At this point,
the Talmud poses a powerful question:
Why couldn’t Rabbi Yochanan just lift himself up,
the way he lifted up Rabbi Chiya?
If he had the power to restore someone else,
why couldn’t he do the same for himself?
And the answer given by our sages is succinct but legendary:
Ein Chavush matir atzmo mibeit ha’asurim” –
A prisoner cannot free himself from prison.
*****
This is the heart of Shabbat Nachamu.
There are so many forces –
grief,
fear,
rage,
helplessness –
that leave us feeling chalash,
weakened by the world’s pain.
And we cannot navigate this alone.
That is why we gather in community.
Sometimes we are the ones who need a hand.
And sometimes,
we are the ones ready to reach out and lift someone else.
Shabbat Nachamu is the beginning of what our tradition calls the Sheva d’Nechamta –
the seven weeks of consolation that lead us from the ashes of Tisha b’Av to the joy of Rosh Hashanah.
But we don’t get there by forgetting what’s broken.
We get there by facing it together.
*****
This week’s Torah portion,
Va’etchanan,
includes one of the most famous lines in all of Judaism:
וְאָ֣הַבְתָּ֔ אֵ֖ת יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֑יךָ בְּכׇל־לְבָבְךָ֥ וּבְכׇל־נַפְשְׁךָ֖ וּבְכׇל־מְאֹדֶֽךָ׃
And you shall love Adonai your God with all of your heart,
with all of your soul,
and with all of your might.”
It’s poetic –
but abstract.
What does it mean to love God in a world like this?
*****
The late poet Ruth Brin gives us a way to understand:
“To love God is to love each other,
To work to make our lives better.
To love God is to love the world God created
And to work to perfect it.
To love God is to love dreams of peace and joy
That illumine all of us,
And to bring that vision to life.”
That’s the comfort of Shabbat Nachamu.
Not the comfort of denial or detachment –
not the kind of comfort that comes from wrapping ourselves in a blanket and pretending the world is fine.
That kind of comfort is fleeting.
Our tradition demands something more lasting and more courageous.
The comfort of Shabbat Nachamu is the comfort of connection.
It’s the knowledge that while we may feel like we’re in the pit –
whether because of Israel,
Gaza,
America,
our personal lives –
we are not alone there.
We are not meant to be.
*****
To love God is to love one another.
That includes the hostages in Gaza and the victims of October 7th and their families –
regardless of where you fall politically.
And yes,
to love God is also to have compassion for starving families in Gaza –
regardless of how you understand the geopolitics that gave rise to this nightmare.
To love God is to love others.
To love God is to love this world.
And to love God is to love ourselves –
especially when we are struggling to make sense of competing feelings:
Anger and empathy.
Blame and compassion.
Defensiveness and despair.
Hope and heartbreak.
None of this is easy.
And none of us can do it alone.
*****
That is why the Hebrew word “nachamu” –
comfort –
is in the plural form.
Nachamu,
nachamu ami –
“Comfort,
comfort my people.”
It’s not just a directive;
it’s a recognition.
The only way we rise from this place is together.
Yes,
there is real suffering in the world.
No,
we will not close our eyes to it.
We will not pretend it’s not there.
But we will also not walk through it alone.
*****
Sometimes we’re the ones who need a hand.
Sometimes we’re the ones offering ours.
Both are holy acts.
*****
So this Shabbat Nachamu,
let’s begin the journey upward.
Let’s not ask comfort to numb us or blind us.
Let’s ask comfort to bind us together.
To help us rise –
not by ignoring or justifying the pain,
but by facing it side by side.
The world is aching.
But we are here.
And we have each other.
Nachamu,
Nachamu, Ami.
//
My people,
//
let’s find comfort together.