You're Not Broken—You're Under Construction! Rabbi Hillel Eisenberg

[music] >> I want to share with you a quick idea. I recently took part in a fundraiser that was taking place in a new Simcha hall being built on top of a pizza shop in Lakewood, New Jersey and the organization running the fundraiser was using the hall as sort of their makeshift headquarters to make [music] their calls for their campaign. So, I walk in there and even though the hall wasn't finished yet and there was wood and dust and tools all over the place, I was still pretty impressed by the overall hall. It had a nice intricate design. It had a nice modern look to it. It looked great and so I settled into my seat. I was there for a few hours helping out making some phone calls. And later that day I go down the block to a Simcha in a pretty old dilapidated hall. This hall was falling apart. There was wood everywhere. There was dust everywhere. There were tools just strewn everywhere. It was the type of hall that you want to just go in and say Mazel Tov and get out. And as I was leaving, I was thinking to myself why is it that when I was in the first hall, I just walked in and I was impressed sort of overlooking all the mess and focusing just on the good. While in the second hall, I immediately zoomed in on the bad. They both had the same amount of dust and wood [music] and tools laying around. Why did one bother me and one didn't? Why was I impressed by one hall that was full of dust but totally turned off by another hall with the exact same mess? >> [singing] >> The answer is that the first hall didn't bother me because although there was dust everywhere and there was wood everywhere and tools everywhere, but that's what I was expecting because that's what something under construction looks like. The hall wasn't claiming to be perfect because it wasn't claiming to be finished. It was under construction. It was work in progress and because of that, the dust made sense. The mess had a meaning. It was part of the process. But the second hall was a finished hall. It was built years ago. It was claiming to be a finished product. There were no construction workers around. There was no future finished product that was on its way. What I saw was what it was. And because of that, every speck of dust stood out like a sore thumb. Every piece of wood on the floor felt like a sign of neglect, not progress. Every single Jew on Earth has been tasked [music] with rebuilding the Beit Hamikdash, but not just in theory. Every Jew on Earth has a room in that Beit Hamikdash, a room with their name on it, a chamber of light and closeness and purpose that only they can rebuild. And once a year on Tisha B'Av, Hashem himself walks into our world, not with thunder, not with fire, but with quiet footsteps and with eyes full of hope. And he comes to inspect the progress, to see how his children are doing, to walk the construction site of the Beit Hamikdash Ma'at, the miniature Beit Hamikdash we're meant to build in our lives, in in our homes, and in our hearts. And in some homes, Hashem steps in and he looks around and he sees dust and he sees wood and he sees tools laying scattered on the floor and he sees people sitting back, people who seem content, people who say, "This is just who I am. This is my life. This is the final product." There's no hammer in hand, there's no plans on the table, there's no signs of effort or sparks of yearning. All he sees is deafening spiritual silence, spiritual surrender. And Hashem looks around and he whispers, with his heart broken, "They've stopped building. They think this is it. They don't even remember the room they were born to finish." But then, Hashem walks into another home. And at first glance, it looks exactly the same as the first one. There's dust on the ground. There's blueprints half unrolled. There's tools scattered all over the place. There are walls that are unfinished. There are cracks in the foundation. But this home is different. Because in the middle of the mess, there's a Jew. He's not perfect. He's tired. He's worn out. He's made mistakes. But he's got a hammer in his hand and there's a tear in his eyes and he's standing in the middle of a pile of dust and he's looking up and he's saying, "Hashem, I didn't forget. I still believe in the blueprint. I'm still building. I'm not done yet. I don't want to live like this forever, in exile, in confusion, in distance from you." And Hashem looks at him. And he doesn't see rubble. He doesn't see a mess. He doesn't see wood and dust and tools. He sees a spiritual construction site. He sees a man on fire, a man who is still building. And he says, "This home isn't broken. It's being built. This man, this struggler, this fighter, this dreamer, he hasn't given up. He is my builder. He is the reason I still believe in this project. This room, his room, is very much alive. It's not a mess. It's under construction." So ask yourself this Tisha B'Av. When Hashem comes to inspect your room in the Beit Hamikdash, what will he find? An empty plot with a do not disturb sign on the door? Or a messy, dusty, imperfect work site with one Jew still building, still crying, still hoping, still swinging the hammer, still dreaming of a day when we won't build with pain, but with light and joy and redemption? Because some people give up. They look around and all they see is dust and wood and nails and chet and tumah and mundanity. And they say, "This isn't a Mikdash מעט. This is a disaster zone." And they're meya'esh. They raise up the spiritual white flag and give in to galus. But that's the wrong approach. You have to look at your life and say, "This isn't a ruin. This is a site under construction." And if you say that, Hashem will throw you a blueprint and a shovel, and suddenly you'll realize you've just been hired. You are now part of the greatest construction company the world has ever seen. A construction company that built for the world monotheism. A construction company that built for the world kedusha and tahara and emes and dveikus and shalom. A construction company that didn't just build buildings. It built a spiritual civilization that the greatest empires in world history could only dream of. A company that built skyscrapers of the soul that reshape the face of the planet. A company that is the envy of angels. A company that is the single most important enterprise in the universe. And now, it's your shift. Tisha B'Av gives you a choice. >> [music] >> You can sit on the floor and mumble some words and go back to a house full of dust and regret. Or, you can stand before Hashem, surrounded by the dust and the debris of your life, and you can cry. You can beg. You can say, "Hashem, give me the blueprint. Hand me the tools. Show me where to start. Don't judge me by the mess, because I'm not done. I never claimed to be perfect. I'm still under construction. That Mikdash Me'at I've been entrusted with, it's not abandoned. It's not falling apart. It's under construction, and I am not done building." And that declaration alone, that refusal to settle, that cry from the soul, is what turns a broken house, a life filled with dust and wood >> [clears throat] >> and tools, into a glorious Beit Hamikdash under construction. I wish you all a meaningful Tisha B'Av.